


50 Shades of Greene (Switch)

by deni269



Category: 50 Shades of Grey - E. L. James, The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Aftercare, Angst, BDSM, Bondage, Danger Play, Dark, Dominance and Submission, Dubious Consent, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Femdom, Flogging scene, Hurt/Comfort, Kinks, Maledom, Mild breath play, Mutual Masturbation, No Aftercare, Oral Sex, Past Child Abuse, Past Rape/Non-con, Past Suicide Attempt, Perceived threat of Rape, Porn With Plot, Power Play, Romance, Some Fluff, Suicide, Switching, Triggers, Whipping scene, mild blood play
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-29
Updated: 2015-02-17
Packaged: 2018-03-09 00:09:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 8
Words: 38,018
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3228734
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deni269/pseuds/deni269
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU (No Zombies)<br/>Daryl Dixon is a damaged soul. He has spent his life narrowly avoiding prison sentence after prison sentence. After his most recent breach of probation, he is left no other option but to undertake an experimental therapy with an inexperienced therapist, Beth Greene. Beth guides Daryl through the process of repairing his damaged soul, but as Daryl gets to know Beth he begins to realise that she is more damaged than even himself.</p><p>This is a story about power and weakness, control and freedom, dominance and submission. And trust.</p><p>**UPDATE** This story is on hold for a few months. My husband was injured at work and I had to go back to work to cover our shortfall, and I haven't had time to put two sentences together. I do plan to return to writing when my husband has recovered.<br/>Sorry to all my fans :(</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Last Chance

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimers:  
> This is an original work inspired by characters, dialogue and situations from "The Walking Dead", and themes from "50 shades of Grey". All copyright belongs to it's respective owners. 
> 
> Even though BDSM can be therapeutic, this is purely a work of fiction used for entertainment purposes only. Please refer to your mental health professional before trying any alternative therapy.
> 
> Please read Archive warnings and Additional tags.

It was a distant muffled thumping, perceived on the very tip of consciousness, which woke him from his heavy, full bodied sleep. It was a dreamless sleep; the type that left your body feeling stiff and your mind clouded. The type that made you feel like you had been wading through a mile of swamp, and emerged covered in mud that grew dry and stiff on your limbs; the journey leaving you disorientated and unsure of your location.

He smacked his dry lips together and rolled his sand paper tongue around the inside of his mouth. It tasted like it had been used as both a urinal and an ashtray at some point during the night.

The thumping sound repeated; sharp and comprehensible now he had risen from his sleep.

He wiped away the crusts from his eyes with his finger tips and waited for his bleary vision to clear, before confirming his location. The room was spinning and lurching around him. The alcohol in his system hadn’t quite worn of yet, but he recognised where he was.

The deteriorated sofa was still in the corner of the room, with the fabric torn and foam bulging out between strands of woven thread. The black heavy blanket was there, stamped with a red demon’s skull and tied on to a rod above the only window. It was used to keep all signs of daylight out. The old wooden casement window had seized a long time ago, before the place had been purchased, and its inability to open left the air in the room in a constant stale state.

The threadbare carpet was littered with clothing, empty take out containers, motorcycle parts, important court documents that should’ve been filed away, and cigarette butts that hadn’t made it into the ashtray.

He had made it home and into his own bed last night, which was a good thing and something that had become increasingly unattainable over the past months. But if he was in his own home it also meant the banging on the door ─ which was getting louder and more urgent─ was probably for him.

He had put himself to bed in his torn and faded jeans and his scuffed up leather boots, so there was no need to dress for modesty’s sake. He glanced towards the dust covered vanity, trying to decipher his image through the cracks in the mirror. He thought about making himself look somewhat presentable by combing his fingers through his mess of hair, darkened with greasy build up, but he figured anyone banging on the door at this hour would probably accept him in his current state.

He turned his attention to his cell on the night stand, and pushed at the screen with fumbling hands to confirm just what hour it was.

9:03 am.

He groaned to himself and rubbed at his eyes again, getting rid of the last of the blurs. It was not a ridiculously early hour for most, but Daryl Dixon was the type of guy who spent his days in bed, sleeping off the nights that were filled with drinking and smoking and slamming his fists into someone’s jaw.

Convinced the urgency in the beating of the door meant the person wasn’t going away, he kicked his way through the clutter that covered the floor area, and stumbled through the open doorway into the living area of the two bedroom bungalow he and his older brother Merle shared.

The remainder of the house was much like his own room, only in a further state of chaos. Newspapers from years gone past were stacked in corners of the room. Ancient, faded and dog eared magazines covered the coffee table, crafted shabbily by his brother. Oil and ash and various bodily fluids from the brawls and other mishaps of visitors stained the carpet. Items that had been traded for Merle’s many products lay in various states of repair on top of any available surface.

Merle was responsible for the vast majority of the mess in the home, yet it always managed to spill over into Daryl’s own space, and into his life.

Despite having his own bed to sleep in, he found his brother laying spread out, face down on the sofa. One leg was stretched out, propping him on to the sofa against the floor. One arm was bent above his head in an awkward twisted angle, the other strewn over the coffee table, his hand dangling in a nearby ash tray. Tufts of his grey peppered hair stuck out in all directions over his head. His face was turned to the side, mouth slack and hanging open. A white line of dried drool ran over his cheek and onto the fabric of the sofa.

“Merle!” Daryl barked vexedly as he kicked his brother firmly in his outstretched thigh.

His brother snorted deep into his throat, but didn’t wake.

“How can you sleep through that shit?” Daryl called down to him, referring to the incessant banging at the door. After receiving no response once again, he gave his brother another swift kick in the ribs, to which there was barely a grunt in response.

He knew exactly how he could sleep through it. The same reason he could sleep for three days straight, bypassing all need for food and water. The same reason he could spend the prior five days in a state of wide eyed hyperactivity, scheming and conspiring and putting wild plans into action. Merle was coming down off something, and Daryl had given up on trying to keep track of just what it was.

Merle had always had a substance abuse problem. Prior to joining the military at age twenty, it was cigarettes and their father’s not so secret stash of moonshine, with a bit of pot here and there if he could get his hands on it. After his dishonourable discharge and time spent in prison, where he first formed his outlaw motorcycle club, _The Savage Sons_ , Merle had begun sampling every drug known to mankind.

Daryl did drink, and once he started it was hard to stop. Most nights it was the only thing to get him to sleep, the only thing to drive the demons away; Demons of past, present and future. What he was, what he wanted to be, what he would never be. Merle never wanted to think about anything, at any time, and Daryl figured alcohol wouldn’t be enough to help Merle deal with his demons, even if that was something he was willing to try.

Daryl stumbled over to the shuddering front door, nearly tripping over a lump in the dirt encrusted floor rug, and swearing under his breath, promising to himself for the hundredth time to throw that thing in the trash.

He placed his eye in line with the peephole, groaning as he recognised the people on the other side, and what they wanted.

He sighed dejectedly as he pulled the door open to the bright morning light and two sheriff’s deputies dressed in their light tan uniforms and sporting their wide brimmed hats.

“Mornin’ sunshine!” Officer Walsh called, tipping his hat in mock politeness and flashing a mocking lopsided grin.

Daryl hated the guy. He hated his sideways smile, his long and flat nose which had been broken a few too many times. His dark curly hair, and sun darkened skin. He found the guy arrogant, abrasive and rude, and far too keen to toe the line with his overly aggressive physical contact.

Officer Walsh was one of two, and he made up the “bad cop” of the good cop/bad cop pairing. Officer Rick Grimes, Walsh’s partner, was another story. He was around the same age as Walsh, had the same lean body type and dark curly hair, but he also had a wise face, easy blue eyes, and a cool demeanour.

Daryl always found Grimes to be far more agreeable of the two. Daryl had even though of considering him as a friend, if their lifestyles hadn’t been so different. Daryl had once offered to help Grimes out with a case a few years back, working as a consultant in tracking. They managed to find a missing girl hiding out in a barn and return her safely to her family. It had been a defining moment in their relationship, and Rick had even tried getting him on permanent payroll, before Daryl has screwed it all up.

Grimes seemed to genuinely care about the job he did, rather than use it as a way to exert power over others, and he seemed to genuinely care about Daryl. Even now, standing in the doorway he had a grimace on his face and disappointment in his eyes. He didn’t want to be here, doing what Daryl knew he was going to do.

Rick Grimes believed there were three types of criminals. The first type couldn’t help who they were. They were born with crime in their nature; it was in their blood, a defect of the mind. No matter how many times you tried to rehabilitate them, they just couldn’t change. The second type were the ones who wouldn’t change. They didn’t start out bad, but something in their lives made them turn to crime. They found the life of crime easier, or they didn’t believe they could do better, or they let substance abuse take over their lives. That was Merle Dixon. Then, there was the third kind. The type who wanted to change, but didn’t know where to start. They also started out right, but something messed them up along the way. They lacked a supportive social network, education or skills, or they felt they had some kind of obligation to a person who held them back. But Grimes was sure if given the opportunity, they could become a valuable member of society. Grimes believed that was Daryl Dixon.

“Mornin’ officers.” Daryl said coolly, as he leant his bare shoulder into the open door. “What can I do for you?”

“You violated your probation again.” Walsh informed, with a taunting smile on his lips, his thumbs tucked into his belt.

“I missed one session.” Daryl protested.

“You missed four.” Grimes corrected grimly, with eyes creased in tension.

The look sent a jolt of dismay through Daryl. He knew Grimes was waiting for the day Daryl completed his therapy. The day he had control over his angry outbursts. The day he could step out of Merle’s shadow.

Daryl chewed on the full part of his lip, and turned his eyes up to the ceiling as he counted the sessions he had missed in his head. Maybe he did miss four. Months often flew by like weeks in the hazy, spinning, muddled up world he shared with his brother.

“I won’t be missin’ the next.” He insisted, attempting to usher Walsh back away from the threshold so he could close the door.

Walsh stuck his police issue boot up against the door frame, halting the door. He peered through the gap, false regret in his voice, “You know we gotta take you in.”

Daryl sighed and with a shake of his head grunted in response, “Yeah I know.”

He stepped back from the door and let Walsh swing it wide open, causing the handle to smash into the already destroyed plasterwork. Daryl didn’t care, there were enough holes in the walls already.

“Can I get me some breakfast first?” Daryl requested, making his way towards the kitchen area before waiting for a response.

“What do you think we are, your personal drivers?” Walsh called as he welcomed himself into the home, eying over its contents, including Merle’s passed out form on the couch. “Get your ass over ‘ere or we’ll add a ‘resisting’.”

“Have your breakfast.” Grimes said, stepping just inside the threshold and dismissing Walsh with a wave.

Walsh gave him a challenging glare, but Grimes was perfunctory, he simply turned his eyes to the towards the police cruiser parked in the driveway behind Daryl's beat-up pickup.

Daryl watched with irritation as Walsh began to poke through the clutter on the floor with his boot. “You got a search warrant?” he asked with an aggressive finger pointed in his direction.

“Arrest warrant says we may enter the premises where necessary, to perform an act of duty.” He turned his sight back to Daryl and smirked, finger pointed to the motorcycle parts by his feet. “And it would be a gross miscarriage of justice for me to ignore this stolen property right here.”

“Shane.” Grimes piped in from behind him, “We ain’t here for that. And we don’t even know if it’s his, or if it’s stolen. Let the man get himself some breakfast, and stop overstepping your boundaries.”

Grinning to himself at Walsh’s scolding, Daryl stepped into the tiny kitchen area, made even smaller by the overflowing stack of dirty dishes in the sink, and the overfull trash, spilling out on to the floor.

“How’s the wife and kids?” He called out, while he explored the empty cupboards.

It was a low blow. In the years that he had got to know the officers, he had picked up that Walsh was insanely jealous of Grimes’ comfortable family life. Walsh didn’t have a family. He had never even known Walsh to have a woman. He wasn’t sure if it was because he was such a jerk or because he had some kind of sexual dysfunction or both, but he did know every time Grimes spoke of his wife and two kids, he saw pain in Walsh’s eyes.

“They’re fine.” Grimes called back through the house. “Carl’s in his senior year. Judy just started judo classes.”

“Lil’ ass kicker.” Daryl said mirthfully, thinking of the little girl he had only met once, four years ago. A tiny babe with fuzzy ginger hair, in the arms of Grimes wife, Lori. She had insisted Daryl hold the baby, although he had refused. He didn’t want to get his dirty hands over something so fragile and pure. The confidence Lori had shown in him at that moment had always left Daryl wondering if the Grimes’ discussed him at home, and if they did, he wondered what they said.

Daryl tugged on the kitchen fridge forcefully, knowing how it always stuck, and it jerked open, revealing nothing but a half empty jar of pickled pigs feet, of which the thought of eating turned his empty stomach.

He slammed the door shut and began sifting through the junk strewn over the countertop until he had found a pack of cigarettes.

He dug into the pocket of his jeans and retrieved his lighter, flicked it open, lit his cigarette and took in a long drag.

 _“_ Breakfast of champions _”_ , he mumbled to himself.

“C’mon.” Grimes called to him, nodding his head back towards the cruiser. “We’ll get you somethin’ on the way.”

Daryl scooped up a red flannel shirt hanging over the counter, not bothering to check if it was clean, or if it was even his. He slipped his arms into the holes where the sleeves had been torn off and then tucked his half empty cigarette packet into the breast pocket.

“Merle!” he called to his brother as he marched toward the sofa. “Hey, Merle!” he called again, this time bending to speak right into his ear.

Merle swatted into the air in front of Daryl’s face. “What is it, you little fuck?” he muttered, not bothering to open his eyes.

“Goin’ to lock-up.” Daryl informed him, nonchalantly, taking another drag on his cigarette.

Daryl marched across the room and stepped through the front door to meet Grimes who was standing on the porch, leaning over the rickety balustrade. He glanced back to see Walsh still lingering inside, glaring down at Merle, who was now lying on his back, his own cigarette in hand, holding Walsh’s glare and grinning defiantly.

“We’ll be seein’ you soon.” Walsh promised, before turning and following Daryl out the door. “You Dixon’s never stay away for long.”

* * *

 

An hour later, Daryl was sitting with a belly full of sausage and muffin, on the cold metal bench inside the holding cells at the county sheriff’s department. He knew the place well, visiting it several times in the past several years and more so recently with the frequent violations of his probation.

It wasn’t that he was a bad person. He didn’t even really consider himself a true criminal. But his brother was always getting him into bad situations, and his own temper often made it worse.

The holding cells were relatively empty for that hour in the morning. He figured the first round of duty lawyers had already been through. He shared his cell with one other man. A regular, around fifty years of age with an overgrown bush of a beard. He was homeless, and Daryl was sure he got himself frequently arrested just so he had a roof over his head.

A forty year old street walker, nicknamed penny for the ridiculously cheap prices she charged her clients, was the only one in the woman’s cell across the hall. She had winked at him when he was brought in, and offered him a free ride once they were out, but Daryl politely refused. As he always did.

Daryl was standing with his head pressed up against the bars, cigarette in hand, waiting impatiently for his lawyer to arrive. They had taken his lighter away for safety reasons and he hadn’t had a cigarette since his first one this morning. It was making him itch all over.

“You got a light?” Was the first thing he asked his lawyer when she entered the room, with her full lips turned down and the dark skin of her brow furrowed in disappointment.

Michonne dug into the satchel bag at her hip and pulled out a lighter, stepping toward the bars to light the cigarette for him. “You know you’re not supposed smoke in here.”

Daryl blew out a mouthful of smoke. “What’re they gonna do? Arrest me?”

Michonne smirked.

“You stopped seeing the therapist.” Michonne said pragmatically, shifting the strap of her bag and tossing her neat and fine dreads over her shoulder.

Daryl chewed nervously on the side of his finger, he hated disappointing Michonne, yet he did it so often.

“I thought you liked this one.” Michonne crossed her arms over her chest, and turned dark accusing eyes on him, waiting for his response.

Daryl shrugged and began picking at a callous on the side of his finger with his teeth.

“I only liked her ‘cause she never said nothin’.”

“So why didn’t you keep seein’ her?”

“’Cause she never said nothin’. What’s the point? I just went there and sat on her sofa and she would just stare at me, expectin’ me to say somethin’.”

Michonne sighed and rolled her eyes in exasperation. “You need to say somethin’, Daryl. If you don’t talk about your shit, this ain’t gonna stop.” She swung her arms in big circles, motioning to the holding cells, “You gonna waste another twenty years of your life in places like this?”

“Don’t wanna talk about nothin’.” Daryl muttered sullenly, “What’s the point in talkin’? None of ‘em care, they just wanna get their pay check.”

“And keep you outta prison!” Michonne retorted, placing her hands authoritatively on her hips. “Just like I do.”

Daryl held her glare, lips held in a firm line, wanting to blow up at her like he did everyone else, but knowing Michonne was one of the few people who did actually care about him, he let his shoulders drop, and his lips turn into a frown.

Michonne had been assigned his case five years ago, on a misdemeanour assault charge. She had managed to get all charges dropped that time. Most recently he had been involved in a particularly nasty ass kicking that had resulted in a major and permanent injury. He had broken one of his rules; never hit someone weaker than you, but the guy had deserved it.

The guy was a well-known low life who lived in the area. He had been beating on his wife for fifteen years, and then he had started to watch his young daughter in a most un-fatherly way. The night Daryl had beat the man to a bloody pulp, he had interrupted him while raping his battered and unconscious wife in a parking lot and telling his screaming daughter, who had locked herself in the car, that she was next.

Ed Peletier had lost vision in both eyes, had paralysis of the left side of his body and suffered from frequent seizures. He lived in a care facility now, far away from both his wife and daughter.

Michonne had backed him one hundred percent on that particular incident, and she had worked night and day, proving that Daryl had done the world a service. She managed to have his charge reduced from malicious bodily harm to common assault, and had his sentence reduced from ten years to five years suspended with probation. There was only one condition; he was to attend and complete a full course of anger management therapy.

Michonne and Daryl had grown close over the years, and she became one of the few people who could look through his tough outer shell and see a soft heart within. Michonne saw that he was a person who only fought when he felt he had no other choice. Unfortunately Daryl Dixon led a lifestyle which meant he needed to fight a lot, and his anger problems meant sometimes he didn’t know when to stop.

After seeing twelve different therapists, Daryl still hadn’t completed a full course of therapy, and his temper continued to get him in trouble. Michonne had near run out of options on keeping him out of jail, and she had now run out of therapists who were willing to take his case.

Daryl kicked at the bars of his holding cell aggressively when she told him this, causing old Ken, the homeless man, to wake from his nap momentarily, look at him in wonder and then fall back asleep.

Michonne huffed impatiently at his temper tantrum.

“This is why you need therapy. Your temper will keep getting you in trouble if you can’t learn to control it.”

“Well I ain’t gonna learn am I? There ain’t even anyone left to teach me.”

Michonne crossed her arms and leaned into the cinderblock wall, her face twisted in thought.

“There is somebody you could try.” She spoke slowly as she dug her hand into her bag, and began rummaging through. She pulled out a white card and examined it, seeming hesitant to hand it over. “She specialises in alternative therapy.”

Daryl took the last drag of his cigarette, dropped it to the ground and snuffed it with the toe of his boot. He screwed up his face in distaste; he knew why she hesitated now, “Alternative therapy? You mean like that coffin guy?”

Since he was in grade school people had been trying to get him into therapy, and Daryl had had his fair share of therapists, ranging from the average sit down and talk to the outright insane. Some just wanted to use herbal remedies and meditation. One guy wanted him to spend the night lying in a coffin at a funeral home. It was supposed to make him think about death and the path he was taking. He had spent a few hours there, and then Merle had found him and done the place over. It was surprising how much coffins would sell for on the black market.

“You know you should give these alternative therapies a real go. You never know, something may just work.” Michonne turned her eyes up the sky. “Lord knows regular therapy ain’t helpin’.”

“Give me her number.” He said with a flick of his fingers. He didn’t have all that much choice. It was either the last therapist in town who would risk taking him on as a client, or prison.

Michonne took out the card and placed it into his outstretched hand. “And look Daryl, she’s just starting out, you’ll be among her first clients, so go easy on her. She might ask you to do things that take you out of your comfort zone. Give it a fair go.”

He looked down to the card in his hand, reading over the phone number and address. It was in Atlanta, which wasn’t ideal, but it was only an hour from home. He turned the card over to read her name and credentials.

**Beth Greene**

**Alternative Therapist**

**MC. CETS. RART.**

* * *

 

It had taken a few hours for Michonne to smooth things over with the judge and get him out of lock up. She had dropped him off at his home just before 6pm, when the light was beginning to grow dim.

Merle was gone from his spot on the sofa, but after a quick search of the house Daryl found him lying on his bed, still fully clothed.

Daryl emptied his pockets on to the kitchen bench, placing the small white business card alongside his lighter and house keys, and then stripped off the shirt, leaving it in the place he had found it and headed towards the bathroom.

It was a long shower, the type you take when you are contemplating your life choices; Letting the hot water roll over your back urging the deep thoughts from your mind.

He knew Michonne’s resources had been stretched thin, and this would definitely be his last chance, but he had no faith in therapists, especially one who was just starting out. He knew she would end up just like the others, with her little notebook and her condescending looks and her glances at the clock waiting for the session to be over. None of them knew what made him do the things he did, why he took things to far, and none of them seemed to care to find out.

But he knew he had to do this, if he didn’t owe it to himself, he at least owed it to Michonne.

He stepped out of the shower, grabbed a towel and rubbed it through his hair before wrapping it loosely around his hips. He pushed back his tangles of damp hair, and examined his face and body in the mirror. The scars. Some from long ago, some from only a few weeks back. He wondered how many more he would get while spending five years in prison.

He went back to the kitchen, lit himself a cigarette, picked up the card and pulled out his cell phone.

It rang twice before someone answered.

“Beth Greene, Alternative therapy.”

It was a female voice, soft and light with a slight southern twang rather than the drawl he was used to. The girl didn’t sound much older than sixteen and Daryl figured he must have caught hold of the secretary.

“Yeah, the name’s Daryl Dixon, I got this number from Michonne.”

“Oh yeah. Anger management, right? you wanna make an appointment?”

“Yeah, the sooner the better.” He did want to get it out of the way.

“Well the schedule’s pretty open, you’re the only client.” She chuckled lightly, like she knew a joke he didn't, “so I can book you in anytime. How about tomorrow? 4pm?”

“yeah, that’s cool.”

“Great. Just wear something comfortable and make sure you drink plenty of water before you come.”

Daryl hesitated, thinking it an odd request. “Okay.” He finally replied.

“I’ll see you at 4pm tomorrow, Mr Dixon.”

Daryl swiped his thumb against the screen to end the call and then stared at the card in his hand, reading over her credentials and wondering exactly what they stood for.

Comfortable clothes, and drinking water before you come. Just what kind of therapist was this woman?


	2. The Contract

He arrived at her apartment on time. Not his intention, as he never wanted to seem too eager to do anything at all, but it was on the outskirts of town and he had managed to avoid the traffic.

He parked his motorcycle, on the side of the road underneath a birch tree, overgrown and cracking through the asphalt. It was originally his brother’s bike, a Triumph Bonneville with custom ape hangers, but Merle had handed it over to Daryl after he had finished his custom built chopper.

He looked at the building in front of him, and then turned both ways down the street to examine the buildings surrounding it, before double checking the address on the card. The apartment blocks all looked to be residential, ranging in three to five stories in height. The one in front of him was an older, terracotta coloured brick building that had been recently refurbished.

Approaching the entrance, he saw that all the apartments were labelled with plain family names and there didn’t seem to be a single business, and he concluded that she ran the sessions from her private home.

The buzzers were assembled in rows by floor, and the top row was labelled with ‘Greene’. She had the penthouse apartment, and the whole top floor to herself. He pushed his thumb into the button and waited for a response.

The secretary answered, “Come on up.”

He glanced up at the camera above his head, and gave an awkward wave of acceptance.

He avoided the elevator in the building, taking his time climbing the three flights of stairs to the top level, then strolled over to the only door and knocked on it lightly.

There was a chorus of clicking locks and jingling chains before the door was swung wide to reveal the upmarket interior of the apartment and a young blonde girl, who Daryl assumed was the secretary he had spoken to previously.

She was a small girl, standing a good foot or so below his own height. Her features were slight and delicate, her mouth small and pursed, cheek bones high and eyes wide blue and innocent. She was attractive, that was for sure, but not the kind of girl he would normally go for. She had ethereal beauty, and he was used to the hard worn features of backwoods women.

She was not dressed conservatively as Daryl assumed was the custom for most secretaries, instead she was barefoot, wearing jeans torn at the knees and a loosely knitted sweater that was so large it fell of her shoulder. She had a rock star looking leather cuff bracelet fixed with a silver cross on her left wrist. Her long blonde hair was caught up in a loose side ponytail, with many wisps of hair dangling freely by the side of her face.

She positioned herself with her back up against the door, her bare feet crossed over one another, and she examined him.

He was used to being examined by women. Ever since the age of fourteen, girls had done double takes on him. He hated the attention and he had even gone out of his way to make himself seem less attractive; Refusing to cut his hair, unless it was absolutely necessary, and letting his facial hair grow free, although he could only grow it in wisps on his chin. He had been told it was his clear blue eyes, broad shoulders and strong arms that drew the women in. But there was no avoidance of personal grooming that could change those things.

This girl let her eyes run over him slowly, but she didn’t have the same hungry look most women had. Her look was more the way rich folk examined a painting of sploshes and splatters and called it fine art. When she was done with her visual analysis, she waved an arm towards the living area of the apartment, instructing him to enter.

Daryl took a step over the threshold and then sidestepped to allow the girl to close the door behind him, and replace the locks into their original positions.

“Why don’t you take a seat?” The secretary suggested as she stepped past him; her movements light and graceful as he would expect of someone her size.

Daryl followed her towards the centre of the room, his eyes drawn to the girl’s small frame. She was fine boned and petite, yet her arms were shapely. And the width of her hips implied she was older than the teenage years her looks suggested.

Realising his eyes had lingered on her twitching hips for too long, Daryl switched his focus to the interior of the apartment.

It was light, airy and bright. The ceiling rose high above him, greater than your standard single story. A full wall was covered in rectangular paned windows, separated at intervals by sheer royal blue drapes. The exposed brick walls had the recycled look, worn and weathered, but were made to look fresh and clean by a coat of crisp white paint. Every yard or so a large brightly coloured painting framed in either simple black or stained timber hung, and within the spaces were several collections of framed black and white photographs. Happy people. Beautiful people. Rich people.

The furnishings were scarce, but bright, modern and costly. He had never seen a therapists dwelling look quite so well furnished, and he wondered if the amount allocated to his therapy by the state would be enough to cover her fee.

The plan of the apartment was open, with the entry and living area being sunken and adjoining the front area of the apartment with the large window. Surrounding that area was a kitchen and dining area, and a long walkway which navigated a full wall. Along the wall were three closed doors spread apart by several yards, two painted white and one painted a bright leaf green.

The secretary wordlessly ushered him into the centre of the living area, and stood him in the centre amongst a long sofa, coffee table and a single arm chair.

“Let me get my stuff.” The secretary called to him as she busied herself in an area sectioned off by a low wall.

Daryl watched her as she moved around an electronic piano and a guitar on a stand, a console and various other recording equipment. A wave of discomfort flowed over him as he wondered if this therapist used some kind of musical therapy. He had seen a woman like that before. She had tried to get him to beat on a drum kit to get out his aggression. He had put his foot through her bass drum, and she had asked him to leave and never return.

Daryl didn’t care much for music. ACDC and Lynard Skynard were pretty stock standard on the ancient jukebox in _Jake's_ ─the bar Merle had purchased before the _Savage Sons_ had disbanded─ and he occasionally recognised a song that would crackle through his truck radio, but he never went out of his way to actively listen to anything.

The secretary collected a small plastic orange coloured case, and carried it over to where he was still standing. She placed it down on the coffee table, and pushed him down onto the yellow sofa with a small but insistent hand on his shoulder.

She dropped herself down on to the plush grey armchair opposite and sitting cross legged she began making small talk, commenting on the weather, complimenting his leather vest, discussing her favourite music. Obviously stalling until her boss arrived.

“Look, can we get on with this,” He interrupted her talking about some hard to manage horse her daddy owned. “I ain’t fixin’ for chit chat.”

“Okay.” She replied sweetly, despite his brash tone.

She picked up a notebook from the coffee table and began scribbling notes in neat shorthand.

“How old are you Mr Dixon? Or can I call you Daryl?”

“Turned forty-five this year, and yeah, you can call me Daryl.”

She smiled at him, her blue eyes glistening, and then scribbled down his reply.

“Are you married?”

Daryl shook his head, it was a pretty standard question, the therapist always wanted to know about his social and family life.

“Girlfriend?”

He shook his head again.

“Boyfriend?”

He frowned at her and growled, “I ain’t gay.”

She shrugged and scribbled something on to her notes.

“Sex partner’s?”

“What?” He was stunned at the abruptness of this girl who looked like she still belonged in high school.

“You know, like do you have casual sex partners?”

He shook his head. “Not right now. No.”

He glanced towards the front door, expecting the therapist to have arrived by now. “When’s Ms Greene gettin’ ‘ere, I ain’t discussin’ this stuff with a kid.”

The girl dropped the notebook on to her lap, and slapped her palms into her forehead.

“Oh geez, I’m so sorry, I’m new at this. I’m kinda nervous.”

She stuck her hand forward, palm open, indicating she wanted him to shake it.

“I _am_ Beth Greene.” She smiled up at him her lips slightly parted and revealing the tips of pearly white teeth.

Daryl ignored her outstretched hand and regarded her with a cocked eyebrow.

“How old’re you, girl?”

“I’m twenty one. I started college at seventeen …I have my credentials, wanna see?” She made to stand, but Daryl held up a halting hand.

“S’ok, just thought you’d be older is all.” He sat back into the sofa, no longer apprehensive of when the session would start, knowing it already had.

“I ain’t married,” he began listing off on his fingers, “ain’t in a relationship, got no kids, no pets, live with my brother, no sisters, both parents are dead, don’t work, smoke like a chimney..."

"You don't work?" Beth interrupted. "How do you make money then?"

"Used to fix bikes some years back. Now I just do whatever my brother's doin'."

He waited for her to write in her notes, but she continued to stare at him with the same relaxed smile on her lips, as if waiting for him to continue.

"Drink often," He began where he left off, "Go huntin’ for fun, don’t exercise…”

“You hunt?” She interrupted for the second time.

He shrugged. "Yeah, when I get the chance.”

“You into guns?”

Daryl shook his head. “Not really. I use a crossbow.”

Beth grinned ear to ear, “That _is_ interesting.”

“It is?” he questioned with a cocked brow. “why?”

“Well any fool can point a gun and pull a trigger. A Crossbow is more unique, more personal. It requires more dedication. It has reusable projectiles, which tells me you like things to last a long time. It’s also very quiet and stealthy, which tells me you have something to hide.”

Beth held his gaze, “Do you have something to hide?”

“Don’t we all?”

Beth nodded. “Yes. We do.”

Her eyes dropped from his face now, scanning across his hands and forearms.

Daryl crossed them protectively across his chest.

“How many tattoos do you have?” She asked, quirking a brow at his movement.

Daryl extended his hands to look at the spots of ink here and there. He had several tattoos, all done by amateurs. Only a few of them had any special meaning to him.

“More than you can see.” He replied with a shrug.

“Do you enjoy the feel of the tattooist’s needle?” she asked, leaning forward demonstrating great interest.

He raised his hand to his chin, and tugged at the hairs while regarding Beth, wondering what she was trying to get out of him. “A little. Guess it’s kinda… _therapeutic_.” He smirked at her. “You gonna write in your little notebook that I’m some kind of masochist now?”

He waiting for her to scribble what she had learnt about him onto her notepad, but she merely continued to stare at him, a small smile playing at her lips. “Anythin’ else you wanna know?” He said, trying to break the trance like state she was drawing him into with her soft features and wide blue eyes.

Beth gently placed the notepad on the ground by her feet.

“Yeah.” She held his gaze. “What are you doin’ here?”

“What d’ ya mean?” he shrugged his shoulders. “Court’s makin’ me, cause I get angry and people get hurt.”

“Do you want to be here?”

She waited patiently for him to answer, watching him with a solemn face.

“Well, I don’t wanna go to jail.” He replied curtly.

She smiled again, brightening her face like beams of sunlight through the clouds, “well, I’ll try to help you with that.”

She knelt beside the table and popped the clasps on the orange case she had brought over earlier. Opening the lid revealed it was a medical kit, filled with plastic test-tubes, cotton swabs and syringes. She began sifting through the instruments, removing a fresh needle from a sterile packet and fitting it onto a syringe. She picked up a strap and stood to come by Daryl’s side. He now understood why she had wanted him to drink water before he came.

“I gotta take some of your blood.” She said dangling the tourniquet in front of him.

Daryl hesitated; he had never had to give blood in a therapy session before. “Why?”

“The activities you participate in, they can get quite rigorous. I need to know your level of health, if you have any diseases, pre-existing conditions, you know that kind of stuff.”

Daryl still looked hesitant, wondering just how rigorous musical therapy could be.

“I’m very good with a needle. My daddy’s a vet and I used to help him.”

Daryl reluctantly held his arm out extending his forearm and allowing her to apply the tourniquet. “I don’t mind. Pain don’t bother me, remember.”

Beth pressed her lips together as if holding back a smile and then gently pressed into the crook of his arm, searching for a vein and when she found one she picked up a syringe, removed the cap with her teeth and pushed the needle into his vein.

She had been right, she was very good. Daryl barely felt it, and he watched idly as she filled up two tubes with his scarlet blood, and placed them back into her kit, before pushing a cotton swab into his pin-pricked arm.

She stood up with her orange case and walked back over to her studio. “The blood work will take a few days, and I can’t start our sessions until I get it back, but I’ll give you a contract to look over in the meantime.”

She dropped the case down on her desk and banged around in a drawer, returning to him with a sheet of paper in her hand.

She handed it to him, and he glanced at it briefly, figured it was your standard therapist/client confidentiality agreement, and then reached for the pen that was still attached to her notebook on the floor by her chair.

She gently kicked the pen away, and pushed her bare toes into his hand. “You need to take it home and read it first.” She instructed, smiling at him with something mischievous playing in her eyes.

Daryl folded the paper in half against his knee.

“So can I go then?” he asked glancing towards the door.

“Sure, unless you wanna stay and…chit chat.” She giggled to herself.

“Nah, got better things to do.” He made to stand up, before she gripped him around his wrist. He stared down at her, taking in how fragile she looked, and how small her fingers were against his thick wrist.

“Your next appointment.” She said, releasing his wrist, but letting her fingers drag caressingly over his palm. “I only take on one client at a time, so I can see you any time you like.”

There was something in the way she spoke of him as her only client which made him feel as if she was devoted to him. He had never had a therapist be solely devoted to him before, and something stirred inside of him, a proud sense of ownership.

“I guess when you get that blood work back.” He suggested.

“I’ll book you in for Thursday, 4pm. Is that okay?”

Daryl nodded his head as he marched to the door, ready to see himself out.

“When you come next time, catch a taxi. Sometimes our sessions will involve ingesting substances that could impair your ability to drive.”

Daryl shrugged his shoulders, not thinking too much of it, he had been involved in drug trials before. He unlatched the door and pulled it open, ready to step out into the walkway.

“Daryl.” Beth called out after him, emphasis in her voice. “Make sure you read the contract.”

* * *

 

He didn’t read the contract immediately. It spent a couple of days in the saddlebags of the motorcycle collecting oil, until he went searching through them for his spare lighter. Then it spent a day on the kitchen counter, where alcohol and cigarette ash added colour to the  whiteness not yet stained by oil. It was Thursday morning when he finally picked it up and, standing in nothing but his drawers, chewing on jerky, he had a proper read of her contract.

*

**Contract for Therapy**

 

Please read this carefully. If you agree with the conditions, this will form the basis for our therapeutic relationship.

**Therapeutic Principles**

The therapeutic relationship is based on trust and respect, guided by the client’s developmental process. The main purpose of the therapeutic conditions is to put into place structures that will facilitate this development. The boundaries are set according to my own professional experience of what works best in these therapy situations.

Various techniques may be used, for example bodywork exercises, social engagement, counselling and psychotherapy.

**Length of therapy**

The therapeutic process may be for an agreed length of time to begin with, but can be a long term commitment.

I recommend starting with twelve (12) sessions. Due to the rigorous nature of the therapy, I recommend spacing these session by no less than three (3) days.

**Expiration of contract**

The contract shall expire six (6) weeks from date of signing, at which time the contract and its clauses will be reviewed by both parties and renewed with changes if necessary.

**Termination of contract**

The contract can only be terminated before the date of expiry if both parties are in agreement. Once a contract has been terminated it cannot be renewed.

**Client’s role**

The client understands that an integral part of the therapy is to submit all power to the therapist. The client will accept the guidance and direction of the therapist in all tasks. The client accepts that the nature, duration and intensity of treatment are up to the discretion of only the therapists until termination of the contract. The client accepts that they must relinquish their rights of revocation. The client must always speak to the therapist with utmost respect, and with language fitting of her status. The client may not partake in any social activity involving violence, sex or substances, without prior discussion with therapist.

**Therapist’s role**

The therapist accepts the responsibility of the physical, psychological and emotional care of the client, under the provisions determined in this contract. The therapist will keep the patient’s whole and complete recovery as the upmost priority throughout the course of treatment. The therapist will only choose a course of treatment that is within the guidelines defined herein.

**Limits**

During therapy, the parties shall not partake in any action which results in;

  *          Death
  *          Loss of consciousness
  *          Limb loss
  *          Disfigurement
  *          Massive blood loss
  *          Loss of teeth
  *          Eye damage
  *          Bone fractures
  *          Permanent illness



If any of the above listed events occur during the course of treatment, whether by intention or accident, it will be grounds for immediate termination of this contract.

**Client’s signature**

I _______________ of sound body and mind, having read and fully understood in its entirety, agree to accept this contract. I, further, release the therapist from any past, present, or future liability in connection with or as a result of this agreement.

**Therapist’s signature**

I, _Beth Greene_ , have fully disclosed, in detail deemed necessary, all actions involved with this course of treatment. I understand and accept the responsibility implicit in this arrangement.

*

He signed it.

He didn’t understand it in its entirety. He didn’t understand the need for a death and injury clause, he was sure that was simply implied rather than specifically written, but he figured every contract he had had with a therapist would’ve read like this. If only he had bothered to read it.

Of course, he was wrong.


	3. Drinking Games

When he arrived at her door that night, he was met by the drifting sound of a low and mournful tune that worked its way through the solid timber of the entry door.

Curious about what was being sung, he pushed his ear up to the door to listen to the lyrics.

_You rose with a phoenix out of a flame  
It was all in the image and not in the name_

_Even in sunlight shadows still roam  
Oh How I wish you took me home_

Muted but still discernible, they were the only lines he caught before the singing went silent.

It was a sad song of loss, from what he had gathered, and he figured it must be about some silly high school crush she must have had. A perceived first love perhaps? Something that pretty rich girls with too much time on their hands worried about. She didn’t know the first thing about loss.

He knocked brusquely on the door when he heard her footsteps approaching, not wanting to seem like he had been eavesdropping. When she pulled open the door he pretend to look stunned, like he hadn’t expected her to answer so quickly.

She was wearing shoes this time, a simple pair of canvas sneakers, still not something he would expect of a qualified therapist, living in an upmarket apartment. Her jeans were torn at the knees once again, her tee was a plain pastel coloured v neck, and her hair was braided to the side.

“Come in.” she urged, her voice light and bright once again, a complete contrast to how she sounded while singing.

Daryl entered the apartment, and waited for her to close the door behind him, noting how she didn’t turn the locks and reset the chains.

“Do you have your contract?” She asked holding out her hand in request.

Daryl swung his back pack from his shoulder and balancing it on a knee, dug into it to retrieve the crumpled and stained piece of paper.

He handed it over to her, smirking when she screwed up her face in irritation as she tried to flatten it out in her hands.

“I got your blood back. It’s all clear.” she said as she strode over to her office, and placed the contract in the photocopier. “Do you have any questions about the contract?”

“I dunno.” He tucked his hands under his arms protectively, not wanting to admit he didn’t understand much about it at all. “What’s with all the death and loss of limb stuff?”

Beth chuckled, “It just means I won’t kill you.” But Daryl didn’t see the humour.

“And what about ‘relinquish rights of revocation’. What does that mean?”

Beth cleared her throat. “I will push you to your limits, but I won’t put your body or mind through anything it can’t handle. You won’t be able to tell me to stop just because it makes you feel uncomfortable.”

“What exactly are we doin’ that’ll make me feel uncomfortable that also requires a specified death clause?”

“I think it’s better if I don’t tell you my exact methods. If you knew all the details, your anxieties and proprieties would affect your decision to continue. Besides, I think it would speed your rehabilitation if you were to relinquish control in this particular situation; put your whole trust in me.”

“I don’t trust no one.”

“I know. Maybe this is where you can start.”

His therapists had made him do lots of things that made him uncomfortable in the past. Expressive movement, where they tried to make him dance around like an elephant doing ballet. Rebirth simulation, where he was wrapped up in a blanket while his therapist tried to squeeze the life out of him. The night spent sleeping in a coffin. There was no comparison to when they tried to make him talk about his past. He was certain nothing could be more uncomfortable than that.

He shrugged, “You’re the therapist. You know best, right?”

Beth flashed a confident grin towards him. She pulled a crisp clean copy of the contract from the copier, and strolled over to him, grabbing a denim jacket that hung on the nearby chair on the way.

She handed the contract back to him, and frowned when he shoved it back in his bag, crumpling it once more.

“Did you catch a cab?” she asked as she stepped past him and towards the door, shrugging her jacket over her shoulders and freeing her long blonde braid from the collar so it hung neatly over her shoulder.

“Yeah.” He only half lied. He had parked his bike a fifteen minute walk away and caught a cab from there. He wasn’t about to pay the fare for the hour long ride back home, but he couldn’t have Beth blabbing to his probation officer that he had been driving under the influence of whatever she was planning on trialling him on.

“Come on.” She said as she pulled the door open, and waved for him to follow.

“Where we goin’?”

“I’m gonna get to know you better.” Beth said, winking slyly back at him, “I’m gonna take you to a bar. Share a drink with you.”

“That’s why I had to catch a cab? Cause you wanted to get me drunk?”

Beth shrugged nonchalantly. “Seemed like the responsible thing to do.”

Daryl hesitated for a moment, scrutinizing this ridiculously young therapist, who took blood, made promises not to kill him, and wanted to get him drunk, and didn’t seem to think any of it unusual.

“I ain’t never had no therapist get me drunk before.” He grumbled as he stepped past her into the hallway.

Beth closed the door behind him, and smiled sweetly up at him, light dancing in her mischievous eyes. “There’s a first time for everythin’.”

* * *

 

Daryl kept curious eyes on Beth as she hopped down the steps, jumping from foot to foot, her braid bouncing and swinging, looking like a school girl playing hopscotch.

When she had danced her way out of the building and into the cool evening air, she spun around on her heels and hooked an arm into Daryl’s, dragging him to her side as they walked along the sidewalk.

He made to pull away, but Beth was insistent, locking her elbow against her side so he couldn’t make an escape without wrenching free and most likely injuring her in the process.

“So tell me about your parents, Daryl. How did they die?” She asked quickly, and Daryl was certain she was trying to distract him from her unwelcome touch.

It was a question all of his therapists had asked, and he hated answering it, but he had figured a direct answer was the quickest way to get them off his back.

“My mom died when I was a kid. She was smoking in bed, and the house caught on fire. My dad...” His voice caught a little, and he cleared his throat, hoping she wouldn’t notice. “…Died a few years back. Huntin’ accident.”

Beth was watching his face intently, her brows creased in concern and lips pouting in pity.

“I’m sorry, Daryl.” She said, as it was customary to do so.

“Don’t be. I’m not.” He replied, more snappily that he had intended, and he could tell she noticed by the way her eyes widened.

“That’s why I’m sorry.” She said giving his arm a reassuring squeeze.

It was an odd response, which no one had ever made before, and it was surprising to him. He kept himself silent while they strolled along the sidewalk, under the darkening sky, as he tried to decipher exactly what she meant. He had expected her to keep pressing him for details of their deaths but after she had allowed him a moment’s silent contemplation she moved on to another topic.

“So, you live with your brother?”

“Yep.” Daryl grunted in response.

“He older than you?”

“Yeah. By ten years.”

“That must have been really hard on him. Having to take care of you after your mom passed away.”

Daryl’s eye twitched with intrigue at the notable way she had left his dad out of the equation, and simply assumed his brother had been the one to raise him. She was right, but he didn’t understand what he had said to make it so obvious.

“Guess so.” He said, shrugging off his discomfort.

“I mean, you guys really only had each other right?” She tried to elaborate.

Daryl kept silent.

“And that kinda leaves you feelin’ like you owe him, huh?”

Daryl stopped suddenly, catching Beth unprepared and allowing himself to free his arm.

“Look girly, I ain’t havin’ no deep and meaningful with you while we walk along the street.”

“Come on.” Beth responded cheerfully, as she marched backwards along the street beckoning him to follow her.

Daryl dragged his feet, but he obeyed, making a point to keep out of her reach so she couldn’t pull him back in to an arm lock.

She didn’t ask him any more questions, although she kept up the chatter with talk of her own life.

She was born and raised on a large property in rural Georgia. Her mother had died when she was sixteen, and she had been raised throughout the remainder of her teen years by her father, whom she had always had a close relationship with. She had an older brother and sister, who she had shadowed through most of her childhood, until her teenage years when they began to shadow her, trying to control her and boss her around. She attended the local high school until her sophomore year, when she opted for home schooling with her father. She had finished her college education within three years, including a masters in counselling. Music was a big part of her life, and she used it to collect her thoughts and record her memories.

Daryl tried to act like he wasn’t paying attention; that was part of the mask he wore ─pretending not to care about others─ but he did absorb everything she said.

He avoided eye contact by examining his surroundings as they walked. The buildings were beginning to get taller; the trees began to disappear, the traffic began to get more congested. The smell of food and smoke and bodily odour filled the air. More people started to fill the sidewalk, forcing the pair closer together. At one point in their walk, two men came tumbling out of an alleyway cluttered with trash, beating each other with bloody fists, one being accused of sleeping with the others woman. Beth spared the performance a simple glance, and then stepped past it like it was an everyday occurrence. Daryl figured that despite her country upbringing, she had grown accustomed to life in the city.

But a few minutes later they were walking through a landscaped park approaching a homeless couple, who were still rugged up in winter gear, despite the spring weather. They were sitting on a painted wooden bench sharing a laugh with two friendly looking police officers. Beth had stopped short at the sight of them, made a sharp turn and walked straight across the road.

Daryl knew plenty of the homeless in his hometown, many of them were Merle’s associates, but Daryl knew they had a far more regular occurrence in the city. Despite her nonchalance at the violence and overcrowding of city life, homelessness seemed to turn her away. To Daryl this just proved how shallow the spoilt daddy’s girl had been. She probably only avoided them so she wasn’t asked to part with her precious spare change.

Daryl jogged across the road to catch up with her, stopping where she stopped at the edge of an alleyway.

The entry to the bar was partially hidden halfway down, although the neon sign reading ‘Annie’s Basement’ made its presence conspicuous.

Standing on either side of the curtained entry were two beefed up security guards. One, a black man with a full face of beard, a dark knitted cap on his head, and a badge that read _Williams_. The other had ginger hair in a military cut, a thick trucker moustache, and a badge that read _Ford_. Although they both smiled at Beth’s approach, it was only Williams who held out a hand to Daryl when Beth introduced them. Ford simply snarled at him, keeping up his hard ass act. Daryl knew his type well.

Daryl pushed through the thick pair of shoulders to follow Beth down the carpeted hall, making a point of nudging into Ford a little too hard, and smiling as he apologised sardonically. It was a demonstration of dominance, and he knew it would unnerve a man like Ford. Possibly even make him hostile. But he didn’t care.

The sound of percussion instruments reverberated through the mock stone walls that surrounded him. Multicoloured lights flickered over the stonework from the level below. Beth checked her jacket in a small booth manned by a smiling Hispanic girl, and Daryl slipped off his vest, checked his undershirt and tugged his vest back on, not willing to part with it. Beth took him by the hand and led him through the hall, down a flight of metal grated stairs and into the open bar below.

It was smaller than he was used to, but there wasn’t anything in this bar he was used to. His boots didn’t stick to the floor. There was no torn leather on the seats. No broken glass or passed out bodies on the floor. No prostitutes trying to get his attention with a flash of an inner thigh. The stage area in the back actually had a live band, something that was extremely rare to see at _Jakes_. The music wasn’t really to his taste, some hybrid of folk and rock, yet it was bearable.

Beth took him over to a tidy looking bar stacked with shelves upon shelves of fancy sounding liquor, backlit with a red glow that shifted under strobing light, looking something like flowing blood. The counter was high polished granite, curving like ripples on the water, and nothing like the scratched and singed timber counters at the bars he frequented.

A pretty light skinned woman with her hair brushed out in a neat afro, and held down with a glittered wrap strolled over to them. Her breasts were covered, she smiled, and she had all her teeth. That wasn’t something Daryl was used to either.

“Beth!” She called with a tone of fascination and intrigue as her eyes scanned Daryl. “Who is this fine man you’re bringin’ down here?”

“Don’t get too excited. He’s just a client.”

“Oh.” The woman sounded disappointed. “I’m still waiting for you to bring your boyfriend down here.” She leaned over the bar so her face was close to Beth, but she kept her eyes fixed on Daryl. “When you _get_ a boyfriend that is.”

Beth pushed her playfully away. “Daryl, this is Sasha. She makes a mean Madras. The best bar keeper in all of Atlanta.”

“All of Georgia.” Sasha corrected.

“And this is Daryl.”

Sasha extended her hand over the counter, palm down as if she expected him to kiss it, but Daryl simply glared at the back of her hand and left his hands where they were, tucked into his arm pits.

“So what can I get for you two?” Sasha asked, brushing off the slight with a playful swat.

“I’ll have a gin and tonic.” Beth ordered before glancing over her shoulder to Daryl.

“Whisky.” Daryl replied flatly.

Sasha looked awkwardly from him to Beth and then back again.

“What kind of whisky?”

“What d’ya mean what kind? Just get me some whisky.” he replied shortly.

“Well we have Windsor, Turkey, Canadian club, Jack’s, Johhny walker…”

“I don’t care how many types of the shit you have. “ Daryl cut her off, “Just gimme a drink!”

He knew he was being snappy and overaggressive, but he couldn’t be further out of his comfort zone, in this bar that was slowly filling with hipsters in tight pants and neatly trimmed beards.

Before Sasha could respond, a man who didn’t look much older than Beth, with light coloured curly hair and a permanent smug smile pasted on his full lips, stepped in beside her.

“Just get him the house whiskey, Sasha.” He said, before turning his attention on Daryl.

He leaned over the counter and brushed his lips against Beth’s cheek and whispered something in her ear that made her blush.

Daryl clenched his fists, feeling a touch of possessiveness. It wasn’t that Beth was his girl, or that he wanted her to be, but he was enraged that this guy was obnoxious enough to assume otherwise.

“The name’s Zach.” The guy said holding out his hand, which Daryl glared at with jaw set firm until it was removed. “I’m the owner.”

Just what Daryl needed, another rich kid flaunting his success in his face. Daryl flicked his fingers towards the approaching Sasha, encouraging her to hurry up with his drink.

“Hmm.” Zach groaned thoughtfully, as he looked Daryl over. “Anger management?” he queried, leaning into Beth

“Yes.” Beth informed him. “My first.”

“He’s perfect.” Zach replied, talking about him as if he were some kind of science project, and wasn’t only a yard away.

Daryl snatched at the glass of whiskey Sasha handed him and swallowed it back along with the urge to punch the kid in the face.

“Zach and I took a few classes together in college.” Beth explained to Daryl. “He taught me a lot about myself. And others.”

“Yeah I bet.” Daryl muttered, as he imagined them fucking up against a wall in her dormitory, and found the thought even more infuriating than Zach’s pretty, smug face.

“I’ll leave you two alone.” Zach said, as if sensing Daryl’s growing fury. He tapped Beth lightly on the arm as he made his retreat. “You still playin’ tomorrow night?”

“I’ll be here with my six string.” Beth replied as she waved him away, giggling and blushing like a lovesick school girl.

Daryl finished his mouthful of whiskey, “You singin’ here tomorrow?”

“Yeah. I usually do a set here once a month. I like to share my music.”

Daryl stared down into his glass, feeling like he didn’t deserve to even be in her presence. Young, smart, talented. Everything Daryl wasn’t and never would be. He didn’t know why it annoyed him so much, he didn’t want her anyway.

“You gonna drink that?” he asked, flicking his finger towards Beth’s untouched drink, before finishing his own.

“I’ve never been much of a drinker.” Beth replied with a chuckle, before taking the smallest of sips.

“How could you? You been twenty-one for what? A day?” Daryl replied with snark.

Beth turned her chin up defiantly, and took a large gulp of her drink.

“What did you bring me here for anyway? Can’t see how gettin’ me wasted is therapy.”

“I wanted to play a game.”

“A game?”

Beth waved a hand towards Sasha, indicting for another drink. “My friends played it when I was younger. I watched.”

“A drinkin’ game?” Daryl asked as Sasha put another glass of golden liquor in front of him.

“Yeah. It’s called ‘I never’. First I say something I’ve never done before, and if you’ve done it, you drink, and if you haven’t. I drink. Then we switch.”

“Sounds stupid.”

“Sounds fun.”

“Yeah well, I don’t know much about that.” Daryl grumbled as he poked at the new glass.

“Ok. Well, I’ll start.” Beth suggested.

She turned her eyes up to the small red spotlights in the ceiling above the counter while she thought.

“I’ve never…shot a crossbow.”

“That ain’t fair; I told you I use a crossbow the other day.”

“That’s how the game goes.” She said with a superior grin and toss of her braid.

Grumbling to himself he took the glass to his lips and took a big swig of the amber liquid.

“Your turn.” She urged, still grinning.

“I never…braided my hair.”

Her grin turned into a wide smile. “Good one.” She said before throwing her head back and taking a gulp. “I’ve never gotten drunk and done something stupid.”

“I done a lot o’ things.” Daryl said before taking another mouthful and swallowing quickly.

He placed the glass down on the bar and rubbed his fingers through the whiskers on his chin thoughtfully. It was a nervous reaction. Something he always did when something made him uncomfortable, and thinking about all the things he had never done, made him just that.

“I’ve never been on vacation.” He finally said flicking a finger towards her, knowing she would drink.

“Really.” Beth said as she raised the glass to her lips.

Daryl shook his head.

“That’s so sad.” She muttered as she took a small sip of her drink.

Daryl shrugged and continued to rub his chin.

“I’ve never…broken the law.”

Daryl snorted in disbelief. “Oh c’mon, not even a parking fine?”

“Nope.” She said with a shake of her head.

“A speeding ticket?”

“Uh-uh.”

He flicked an accusing finger towards her. “How come you looked so scared of those coppers we saw earlier?”

The grin fell quickly from her face, and she dropped her eyes to the glass in her hands, “I wasn’t scared of them.”

So he had been right, the homeless couple had made her uncomfortable. He shook his head and stared into his drink.

“So, have you broke the law or not?” Beth asked.

Daryl scoffed. “You know I have. That’s why I’m ‘ere ain’t it?”

Daryl, somewhat angrily, took another swig from his glass and slammed it back down noisily onto the counter.

“I’ve never left Georgia.” Daryl said with a tone of condemnation.

Without taking her eyes from his Beth raised her glass and drank from it.

He smirked joylessly to himself. He could feel the tension beginning to build between them. Beth’s smiles were becoming less bright and less free. He was intimidating her, and that was his intention.

“I’ve never…” Beth’s eyes went tight and focused, her gaze bore into his soul. “Been locked up. In Jail.”

Daryl’s hand dropped from his chin, and he huffed in annoyance. She knew he had been locked up too.

He took the glass to his lips and drained it, letting the excess spill around the sides of his mouth and drip down his chin, before wiping it off with the back of his hand. “What is this bullshit?” he said as he slammed the glass down, and then curled his finger to the nearby Sasha, indicating he wanted another.

“It’s how you play the game.” Beth insisted, watching him cautiously.

“Oh, ‘the game’. You mean ‘let’s find out how shit Daryl’s life is’? That game? ‘Let’s remind him of everything wrong with his life’. That what you wanna play?”

Daryl grabbed his fresh drink out of Sasha’s hand.

“I’ve never eaten frozen yogurt.” He took a swig.

“I’ve never had a pet pony.” A long gulp.

“Daryl, that’s not how you…” Beth attempted to interrupt.

“Never played sing along. Never owned a business. Never had no fancy apartment in the city.” He skulled the last of his drink, slammed the glass onto the counter and then pushed himself out of his seat and stalked towards the staircase.

“Fuck you and your games, I’m gonna have some real fun.” He called back to her.

“wait.” He heard her call after him. He ignored her as he reached into the cloakroom, past the stunned looking clerk, grabbed his shirt and made his retreat.

She followed him down the hallway, calling out his name urgently.

“Fuck you and your ‘alternate therapy’.” He called back to her while making quotation marks in the air.

He shouldered his way through the small crowd moving in the opposite direction, that gasped and groaned and gave him quizzical looks, and then he threw himself outside into the darkening evening.

He spotted the checker cab through the alleyway at the intersection across the road and waved his hand through the air to hail it.

“Daryl!” Beth called to him stumbling out on to the walkway, shrugging out of Ford’s protective grip.

The checker cab pulled up with a screech in front of him, unsettling the leaves and blowing them across his boots. He tugged on the handle forcefully and flung the door open.

“Wait.” Beth cried, ducking in front of him and barring his way into the taxi with her tiny frame. She lifted a delicate hand and placed it on to his chest.

“I’m sorry if I offended you. It wasn’t my intention.”

“You don’t know me.” He growled down to her. “You don’t know what I’ve been through. What I’ve seen. What I’ve done.”

“I do know you.” She chimed in. “I know someone hurt you. Someone you were supposed to be able to trust; Someone who was supposed to protect you from those who would harm you.”

He held her in his gaze for a drawn out moment. The tension was written in every muscle of his body. His heart thumped into her palm pressed to his chest. The air between them was thick with emotion; anger, fear, vulnerability…empathy.

“You don’t know nothin’.” The words dropped from his tongue and pushed through his teeth, dripping vehemence. His eyes were drawn tight and filled with fury, jaw set back and clenched. It was the look he usually reserved for someone who would shape up to him in the bar. A foe. A competitor. A challenge. Not some fragile girl who stood a foot below his height, looking up at him with her large blue, harmless eyes.

He found her positively terrifying.

“Yes I do.” She murmured assuredly through smiling lips. “I know you better than you think.”

Daryl shrugged his way forcefully out of her grip and turned back towards the cab lifting his leg to enter and leave the girl behind.

“If I’m wrong.” She called out to him, as he slipped across the seat. “You don’t need to come to any more sessions. I’ll even tell the court you’re still attending so you don’t breach your probation.”

She had caught his attention with the mention of probation and he sneered up at her, waiting for more.

“But if I’m right, I’ll see you on Monday. 4pm.”

Daryl snorted derisively and slammed the door closed in her face. Did she actually think he wouldn’t take her up on her free pass?

Seething, he watched through the driver’s side mirror as the small girl, waving goodbye to him as if he were a departing cherished relative, disappeared into the distance. _She don’t know nothin’_. He thought to himself.

But she did.


	4. The Green Room

Initially he didn’t intend to return to her apartment.

She was just some silly little girl. Some pretty young thing with a honey sweet smile and golden hair to match. There could be no two people more different than him and Beth Greene. She was only twenty one. She had no life experiences. She had never done it tough, heck she had never even broken the law. What could she possible teach him about himself?

Yet she knew him. Somehow, she knew him.

He had been seeing therapists for years. He had never told them his past. Some of them had made guesses and had got some things right, but not everything. He had been hurt by someone he was supposed to trust. He had been hurt by someone who was supposed to protect him, and even though it happened so long ago, it played on his mind on a daily basis. That feeling of weakness and loss of control gave him palpitations; Made his throat dry; Made his head swim; Made his rage boil over. He never wanted to feel weak again.

He decided he would return for his 4pm session. If not to receive her ‘alternate therapy’, then to find out how she knew so much about him.

He parked the bike outside the front of the building at 4:20 pm. He considered it a small victory, arriving twenty minutes late. She had been so confident he would return; he delighted in the thought of her staring at her clock and waiting for him to press her buzzer, but nothing happening.

He strolled up to the front of the building and pressed his index finger in on the buzzer that read Greene. And he waited.

It must have been a full thirty seconds before he buzzed again.

Still no response.

Maybe she didn’t think he would come after all. Maybe she really didn’t know him that well. Maybe she really did think he was some low life, law breaking scum who didn’t deserve to be in her presence.

He tucked his hands into his pockets and turned to leave before she called through the intercom.

“Come on up.” She sounded cheerful, and not at all annoyed that he was late. He should’ve known this girl was going to be hard to play with.

He took his time on the stairs, wanting to punish her further. Punish her for not being bothered by his lateness. Punish her for waiting for him. Punish her for having faith in him.

And in return she punished him by making him wait by the door, even though he could hear her inside singing a happy tune.

She finally pulled open the door, genuinely startling him by her suddenness, as if she had planned to creep towards the door silently, tricking him by throwing her voice.

“Right on time.” She said, suddenly cold and clinical.

He took in her appearance. Her golden hair, which usually ran wild about her face, was tied back into a tight roll. She was dressed in a neat and professional looking blouse, black slacks, but no shoes once again, and still the black cuff bracelet. He noticed her toenails were painted black, and so where her fingernails. She also appeared to be wearing makeup, which he had not known her to wear previously.

She waved him in with a more demanding and militant motion than he was used to, and instructed him to sit on the sofa in the centre of the apartment, while she walked into the kitchen area and poured two glasses of water.

“So what’re we doin’ today?” he asked as he dropped himself down, making himself comfortable by resting his dirty boots on the coffee able. She didn’t seem to mind. “Visitin’ bars? Playin’ drinking games? Givin’ more blood?”

Her lips twitched slightly as if she were forcing back a smile. A tiny gesture that told him that she knew something he didn’t, that there was a hidden agenda to her peculiar therapies.

“No.” She said as she slid a glass of water across the table towards him. “This time we talk about your anger.”

“Talk about it?” He raised an eyebrow at her. “They all try to make me talk about that, and I never do.”

“I’m certain none of them had my methods.” She assured him with confidence.

“Oh?” Daryl was accepting of the challenge. He had done the refusal to talk before, many times. He knew exactly what he was doing. He shifted his dirty boots onto the arm of the yellow sofa and resting his arms behind his head, closing his eyes in mock sleep.

Beth didn’t make a sound. The room was utterly silent other than the sound of his breathing and a clock ticking somewhere in the distance. He opened an eye for a second to see what she was doing, and she was just sitting in her chair, leaning forward with her fist propping her head up and her elbow dug into her knee, rubbing a thumb over her pink lips and examining him like he was a test subject.

Several minutes had passed before the ticking of the clock echoing off the brick walls began to drive him insane. He normally would’ve dozed off, but Beth’s eyes bore into him, and he couldn’t shut his mind off.

“Ok let’s talk.” He said with a sigh as he returned to a seating position.

“What do you want to talk about?” Beth asked as she took a sip of her water. The first move she had made since he had lay himself down on her sofa.

“I dunno. You suggested it.”

“Should we talk about your dad?” She said with potency.

“What?” he muttered, slightly unprepared for her abruptness.

“The reason why you’re angry, right?”

“This ain’t usually how it happens.” He replied, anxiously looking at the door, searching for an escape. A therapist had never come right out and told him why he was angry before.

“Do you want to talk about it?” She urged with her uncharacteristically demanding voice.

Daryl leaned forward, pressing his elbows into his knees. He looked down at his nails as they picked at the dry skin on his fingers.

“Nah. I don’t want to talk about that.”

Beth slid the notebook of her lap, and stepped around the coffee table to take Daryl’s hand in hers and draw him up.

“Then we need to move to the next stage of therapy.” She told him, as she grabbed him by the arms firmly and pushed him across the room and towards the green painted door.

“What’s the next stage?” Daryl asked, glancing over his shoulder towards his escape that was getting further and further away.

“Bodywork exercises.” She said bluntly, as she pulled the door open, to a pitch dark room.

She shoved him through the door forcefully, and then closed it behind her with a hollow sounding click.

She found a light switch in the dark, and a dull spot light illuminated a four poster bed on the opposite side of the room.

It was a modern design, consisting of twisted iron bars that looped around each other decoratively. There were sheer drapes that hung from bars that connected the posts overhead. They partially covered the four posts in cascading layers of sheer fabric. The bed was showroom made in satin emerald green sheets and half a dozen pillows that glistened like liquid under the shadowy lighting.

The light was too dim to make out any other discernible features of the room. It appeared to be free from furnishings, and it seemed to have no windows, although several glass fronted cabinets spanned the walls.

By the time he had gathered his senses enough to turn to her and ask what this room was for; Beth was striding away from him and pulling open a door into what looked like a daylight lit bathroom.

“Undress.” She commanded, before slamming the door shut behind her and locking it.

Daryl looked back at the room he was in, which somehow reminded him of a dungeon, despite the comfortable looking bed and lack of bars.

His logical mind told him that she probably wanted him to undress for massage. She probably used this room for relaxation and meditation. That would explain the lack of windows; to deprive him of distraction. But his instincts told him there was something much more complicated going on.

He was slow to undress. Hesitant about what was going to happen to him. He toed out of his boots, and tugged off his socks, leaving them scattered on the floor. He shrugged out of his vest and began unbuttoning his shirt, but stopped himself before he let it slip of his shoulders.

He didn’t think he was ready to undress in front of this stranger, no matter what therapy she had planned. He didn’t even like to undress to fuck. That was mainly done with a shirt on and jeans around his ankles. The only time he was ever naked was in the shower with no one home and the door locked.

He began to redo his buttons, planning to tell Beth that he wasn’t interested in this stage of the therapy and preferred to go back to the bar, but she opened the door and interrupted him after only replacing one button.

“You’re still dressed.” She said as she looked him over.

Daryl struggled to regain his speech, choking on his reply.

Her hair still remained in the tight and neat roll, but what he thought may have been a little makeup before was nothing compared to now. Her lips were full and bright red. Her cheekbones highlighted with burgundy. Her eyes were darkened with thick eyeliner, long black lashes, and shadows that extended to her brow, and out the side to a fine point.

Her clothing had gone from professional to somewhat militant. Her dark leather boots were knee high, covered with studs and straps and had a long stiletto heel which stood severe against the timber floor. Her pants appeared to be black although he couldn’t be certain in the light. They stuck to her like a second skin, highlighting every curve and crevice of her pelvic area. Around her waist was what looked to be some kind of utility belt with several buttoned compartments attached. On top she was wearing a zip up shirt, which also clung to her body, but was loose around the chest area, exposing the slight curve of the underside of her breasts. The high sheen off her clothing told him they were either made from polished leather or vinyl. And she still had the leather cuff bracelet secured around her wrist.

His instincts had been right. This was about something more than just massage and relaxation.

“Look, I don’t know about this.” He said taking a step back. “I ain’t ever done nothin’ like this before.”

“Maybe that’s why nothing has worked before.” Beth said as she stepped toward him, using a slightly softer tone than she had used previously.

She slipped her hand into his shirt, and pulled free the button, then let her fingers run down from his navel, along the trail of hair, and pluck away gently at his belt buckle.

“I ain’t like that.” He choked, as he tried to still her moving hands. “I don’t just go ‘round fuckin’ therapists. And I don’t pay for sex.”

He wanted to push her hands away, but he was overcome with a sudden weakness. The weakness of desire. He certainly couldn’t deny that Beth hadn’t been his last thought before going to bed several times in the past two weeks. And then she had appeared in his dreams, wearing clothing similar to this, or nothing at all. Even though he wouldn’t admit it to her, and he wold never have the confidence to do all the things to her he dreamed of, but this was like a fantasy come true.

“I’m not a whore.” She cautioned him in a voice just above a whisper, “and you’re not paying, the state is.”

His protest caught in his throat, as she tugged his jeans and drawers down over his hips, allowing his semi-erect cock to spring free.

She pulled them to the ground, then using the foot of her boot, she held them in place on the floor while she pushed him backwards towards the bed, forcing him to stumble out of them.

She fought off his feeble attempts at resistance, as she turned him around so that he faced the bed, pushing his shins into the twisted iron at the base of the bed.

He wanted to tell her he wasn’t interested in fucking her, but he knew it was a lie and so did his body. His cock betrayed him, now standing fully erect. His mind was filling with images of slipping across those satin sheets with her.

He swallowed back the protests, and let her take control. That was what he was sure she wanted after all.

Still standing behind him, she ran her hands over his stomach, skimmed them lightly over his chest, and then tucked them into the collar of his shirt, so she could peel it from his shoulders.

He expected to hear a gasp or some kind of exclamation as he felt the fabric pulling away. His whole body was marred with the scars of traffic accidents, bar fights and childhood incidents, but they were the worst on his back.

His whole body quivered as the air touched his exposed spine. The room wasn’t cold, but he was anxious about the questions to come. She was still his therapist after all, and this was probably why you shouldn’t fuck your therapist.

He knew her questions would be invasive and personal, if she were to ask them, but she didn’t ask him anything.

She touched each one of his scars gently with just the tips of her fingers trailing along the lumps and ridges. Following the crisscrossed path up and down and side to side over his back, with tender exploration until both of her hands came to rest on his shoulders. She ran a hand slowly down the length of his bicep, cupping the bulge in her palm briefly before moving down to his forearm. Holding it gently in her hand, she tugged it upwards and he moved to her request holding his arm above his head. He closed his eyes and put his focus on the stimulating sensation of her nose brushing across his shoulder and along the back of his neck, the breath warming the top of his spine.

Then he felt it. Cold and hard. And heard it. zipping into place.

His eyes flew open and he looked straight up to where his arm hung above his head. Hidden among the drapes was a chain and cuff, and it was now snapped firmly around his wrist.

Before he could ask her what was going on, his other arm was above his head and snapped securely into place in another cuff.

“What is this?” He queried with a nervous chuckle, pulling on the cuffs to determine if they were real. It seemed they were real enough for their intended purpose.

She ignored him, dropped to her knees, and snapped a cuff around his ankle that had been hidden in the shadows under the bed.

“This is a little too much kink for me.” He went to lift his other leg out of her reach before she could cuff it, but there was little room for movement. He simply stumbled and she was able to snap it on anyway.

So there he was cuffed by both wrists and ankles to the iron posts of the bed, posing like a star. Completely naked. Completely vulnerable.

“What the fuck is goin’ on?” He called to her as she walked away from him and towards one of the darkened walls.

“Bodywork.” She replied bluntly.

She flicked a switch in the dark shadows, and one of the glass cabinets became suddenly illuminated.

This was some kind of dungeon. Or torture chamber. Or twisted sexual fetish chamber.

Against a green coloured velveteen backboard, was an array of sex toys and implements that he had only ever seen on television and in dirty magazines; Ropes, chains, ball gags, rubber tools in different shapes and sizes, and several different types of whip. Of all the items, it was the last that made his stomach churn the most, even more so when she picked one up.

It was a short whip, with a single tail, made from leather strips woven together.

She took the handle in her hand, wrapping the tail around her elbow with the other hand and pulling it tight causing it to crack sharply.

Daryl pulled against the cuffs with more force, not afraid of breaking the bed frame as he had been previously.

“Alright, funs over now.”

“The fun hasn’t even started.” She said with a devilish smile, swinging the tail of the whip through the air.

“Are you serious? You’re not serious, are you?” he cried, his voice squeaking as she stepped only a whip length away from him. “You’re tryin’ to scare me, right?

It wasn’t at all unlike his therapists to try to scare him into rehabilitation. Usually by trying to confront him with the possibility of his imprisonment, or even death. No one had ever threatened to whip him before.

“Hush now.” She said in a failed attempt to be soothing. “The therapist knows best.”

And then it happened.

The tail whipped through the air, and landed on his back with a clean crisp snap.

The pain didn’t register at first, he was in too much shock. He was too choked up on his own cries to call out.

The second one, that came almost instantly after the first, He let out an inhuman grunt, as the pain finally ripped sound free from his mouth.

The third time he growled, “You’re a fuckin’ crazy bitch!”

She whipped him harder the fourth time, leaving his back feeling like it was engulfed in flame.

“You can scream as loud as you like, Mr Dixon, This room is soundproof. No one can hear you. But if you insult me and disrespect me I will be forced to gag you.”

He watched out the corner of his eye as she flicked the whip up and lashed it down across his back, a satisfied smile on her lips.

“You fuckin’ _cunt_!” He growled through the pain.

He earned himself a small reprise then, as she curled the whip against her hip and marched back to the cabinet to retrieve. His ass cheeks clenched together when her hand brushed over a plug, and he was oddly relived when she picked up a gag.

His relief was short lived, when she stepped behind him, holding the gag in front of his face.

“Your gonna fuckin’ pay for this.” He spat out quickly before the gag was forced into his mouth and tied firmly around the back of his head.

Deprived of speech, all he could do was growl and groan and mutter muffled obscenities while the tiny blonde girl, spun and twirled all around him, stinging his flesh with her whip.

He stopped counting after ten, trying to take his mind of the pain. Trying to think of the tattooist needle and the thrill it gave him. But all his focus was on the dancer who moved around him with perfect grace and delicate beauty, not even breaking a sweat as she inflicted pain upon him.

Then the dancer spun into something else. She merged with a monster. A balding thing, with grey whiskers, rotted teeth, and cold blue eyes. He towered over him, two three times his size. The monster held the willow switch high above his head and slammed it down with all his force. He felt the trickle of blood as it crept over his skin.

“You good for nothin’ fuck!” The monster called. “You shoulda died with your mother!”

And then it all stopped.

There was no more monster. No more twirling dancer. No more whip cracking through the air. No more sting upon his skin. All there was in the room was the heavy breathing and muffled sounds of protest that were coming from his own mouth.

“Stop!” He was begging. “Please stop!”

Then her hands were brushing against his face, and fumbling behind his head to remove the gag.

He flicked his tongue around his mouth and wet his lips, relieved to finally have the gag out.

Then he felt her warm breath brush against his ear. “Stop, who?”

He didn’t know what she wanted him to say, he had never had an interest in BDSM. He wouldn’t even know it existed if it weren’t for his upbringing which saw most genres of pornography frequently being forced into his face.

“Master?” he muttered unsurely. “Mistress?”

“Who did this to you?” She demanded an answer, slapping the curled up whip against his back, light, but still enough to reignite the fire burning across his back.

Realisation dawned on him, like the sun over shadowed earth. He understood what this had all been about now. She had been trying to break him. And she had succeeded.

“Dad.” He muttered.

He had said it. He had told her. For decades people had been trying to get the truth out of him, wondering why he was always trying to defend himself, why he was always trying to show he was tough, why he was so angry, why he had the scars. No one knew, except maybe Merle, but they never discussed it. And now she had manipulated him into confessing.

He was completely under her control.

“I’m sorry.” She said draping an arm around his sweat slickened shoulders and resting her head against the back of his neck. “He shouldn’t have hurt you like that.”

Daryl scoffed to himself, thinking she was one to talk.

He felt a small area of pressure on his back, and it moved from the side of his hip across his back to under his shoulder blade.

“You’re bleeding.” She murmured regretfully as she pressed her chin onto his shoulder.

She presented the droplet of blood to him on the end of her extended index finger; Small round and full, and glowing red under the overhead light.

Her pointed finger came in close to where her face was resting and he turned his head towards her, watching her red lips with intensity as they parted and her soft pink tongue emerged. She turned her finger upside down and pressed it gently on to her tongue. He stared; stunned, shocked and intrigued as the drop of blood dissolved into her tongue.

Her lips then closed around her finger covering it to the base, and she pulled it out slowly, leaving it glistening wet. Then, as if a kitten cleaning her paws, she began lapping at her palm, using her lips to push forward extra moisture to ensure it was thoroughly covered in her own saliva.

She skimmed the still dry back of her hand down across his chest, letting her knuckles catch in his greying chest hairs, then across his belly, circled them between his hips, and brushed delicately across the head of his cock.

He had grown rock hard sometime in the last few minutes. Whether it was when she was licking her hand, tasting his blood, or whipping him until he cried out, he wasn’t sure.

His eyes were focused on his cock and the tiny pale hand that was circling around it, teasing him with its presence, but he could still feel her lips brushing against his jaw and moving towards his ear.

“Do you want to terminate the contract?” She whispered.

He swallowed, and squeezed his eyes together, fighting against the surge of heat and desire her breath in his ear had caused to run through his body.

Her palm ran down the shaft of his cock, leaving a trail of moisture that cooled in the open air, her fingers encircled the base. He had no idea if what she planned to do to him was going to bring him pleasure or more pain, but he was filled with some type of unexplainable masochistic curiosity. And at that very point, he didn’t care which one it was.

“Do you want to terminate the contract?” She repeated, giving him a gentle squeeze.

He shook his head ever so slightly. “No.” He choked out, feeling as if he may have just betrayed himself.

He could see her satisfied grin in his mind’s eye, despite his true eyes being closed and head downturned in shame.

Her hand clamped down on his cock then, and the firm pressure was almost enough to make him blow instantly, but he let out a cry to relieve the build-up of tension instead.

She loosened her grip slightly and began moving her hand slowly up and down his shaft, pausing when she came to the end to rub her palm over the swollen head. His entire cock was covered in her saliva now, lubricating her up and down movements, which were getting quicker and firmer and more intense.

He had kept his eyes closed. Engrossing himself in the warm and soothing sensation of her hand massaging his cock, but curiosity got the better of him, and he peered down to see her working her magic, twisting and pulling and jerking, and milking his cock.

The sensation was amazing. Somehow heightened by the warmth and pressure of her skin ─exposed between her vinyl covered breasts─ against the raw and burning flesh of his back.

Then she began panting against his ear as she jerked. Each breath making the fine hairs on his neck stand erect, and his nerve endings sing and cry and beg to be fired.

She hadn’t been working on him all that long; it couldn’t have been more than a few minutes of her mesmerizing manipulation before he knew he was done for. And she knew it too.

“Now.” She commanded in a whisper.

And his body obeyed.

It started where her breath touched his ear, turned ice cold, and travelled across to his neck. The chill ran down his spine, between the cheeks of his ass, through his balls, up the shaft of his cock, and then it was throbbing. Convulsing. Forcing out milky streams of semen that landed in small puddles of foam on the sea of green in front of him.

“ _Good_ boy.” She said, drawing out the ‘good’ with enthused pride, as she squeezed the remaining ejaculate from his cock, and flicked it away.

He let himself sink in weakness, relief and shame; suspending himself by his restrained arms.

While he hung there she ran her hands all over his sweat slickened body, inspecting every curve and bulge with her prying fingers. Touching his chest, his stomach, his ass, his thighs, his calves, and then dropping to her knees to release his ankles.

Putting weight on his legs again, he twisted his feet around in small circles to ensure proper circulation, and when she released his arms, he did the same to his wrists.

He turned around and watched Beth, as she unclasped her hair and let it flow freely over her shoulders. She began collected his clothing, roughly folding it and placing it on the bed beside his puddle that had dissolved into darkness. His eyes were drawn to her breast when she bent over; it was smeared with his own blood.

“You can have a shower now.” She said smiling up at him, as sweetly as she had when they first met.

It sent a jolt of hot emotion through him; Mainly confusion, but also fear, some excitement at the sight of her small firm breasts, and a little anger that he had let himself be manipulated so easily.

Here, right now, in this room, regardless of whether he was still chained up or not, she was completely in control, and that was something he had spent his life trying to avoid.

His movement was quick and sharp, picking her up and pushing her back into the glass cabinet. It shook vigorously, and several erotic rubber toys fell from their perch.

His hands were large, rough and stained dark from over exposure to the sun, and they stood in stark contrast to the pale, soft and delicate skin of her neck.

He held her firmly in his grasp, not too firm as to crush the slender column of her throat pressed under his thumb, but enough to scare her. That was all he planned to do. He would never hurt someone smaller and more defenceless than himself, he wasn’t like his father, but there was a growing heat developing in the muscles that bundled over his bare hip, which told him she may not be as defenceless as he originally thought.

Without releasing his hold he turned his eyes downwards to see she was holding an object to his side. It had a black outer case and two wire prongs that dug into his flesh. Her thumb was on a round button on the top, her index finger resting on a trigger below. She must have had it in one of the compartments on her belt.

He had been tasered before. Twice. And neither time had been pleasant. What she was holding was a simple hand held taser, different from the ones used on him when being subdued by the police, but he was sure it would hurt nonetheless.

She had won the power struggle once again. His grip loosened and she eased her boots down to flatten on the floor.

“You’re fuckin’ insane.” He hissed into her face, before turning his back to her and collecting his jeans from the bed, and pulling them up quickly.

“You signed the contract.” She reminded him, as she picked up his boots and dropped them by his feet.

“I didn’t understand it!” He said, stepping toward her, forcing her to back away quickly.

“I asked you if you had questions.”

“You _knew_ I didn’t understand it.” He growled as he continued to dress.

Beth took a step away from him and chewed her lip guiltily, “I knew that you would sign it, whether you understood it or not.”

“Yeah, ‘cause you think I’m an illiterate idiot, huh? You think a dumbfuck like me makes the perfect rich girl play thing?”

She chuckled and gently shook her head. “I knew you were willing to try anythin’ to stay out of prison. And you need this more than I do.”

“I don’t need _this_.” He said angrily throwing his clothing filled arms into the air. Angry mainly because he didn’t need it, but he wanted it. He picked up his boots and forced his way out of the room. Into the bright light of the living area, that burned his eyes as they tried to adjust.

“You need to put a salve on your back, Daryl.” Beth called after him, presenting a small tub in the palm of her hand.

Ignoring her, he dropped his boots by the door, shrugged into his shirt and vest, and slipped on the boots without socks or doing up the laces.

Beth sighed and closed her hand around the tub. “I’ll see you on Thursday. Earlier this time. Let’s try 2pm.”

“You won’t ever see me again.” He attempted to assure her, pulling open the door and slamming it hard enough behind him to leave the door shuddering for several seconds after he had stepped away.

He knew she absolutely would.

* * *

 

He went straight home from there, hoping his brother would either be at _Jake's_ or passed out. He would know he had been involved in some kind of power struggle. The hair was still pasted to his forehead with dry sweat. His clothes clung uncomfortably to his inflamed back. His boots were still undone. His socks lost somewhere outside Beth’s apartment. He had a ring of dark read bruises developing on both wrists. He would assume he had been in a fight, but this was one battle he never wanted Merle to find out about.

He checked the usual places he might find Merle; Passed out in the living room, passed out on his bed, passed out in the toilet. After confirming Merle was nowhere in the house, he went straight into the bathroom, peeled off his sticky clothing and turned on the shower.

The hot water filled the room with steam instantly, and Daryl had to wipe away a clear space on the fogged up window in order to see the damage done to his back. It didn’t look as bad as it felt. There were close to twenty long pink marks, welted with white in the centre. Some of them were bright red with blood that was waiting to burst through a single layer of skin. Only the blood on one had managed to work free, leaving a smearing of orange across his back. That was the one she had run her finger across. The one she had collected the blood from. The blood that was on her breast; the blood on her tongue.

Infuriated by the movement the thoughts brought to his cock, he jumped straight into the shower, and attempted to scrub away his sins.

Back in his bedroom after his long hot shower and vigorous scrub, he had torn a path through the clothing on his floor, trying to find a shirt that was clean. The one he had worn earlier that day was now stained with blood, and would probably be thrown out with the trash. He was dripping with sweat as he worked, some of it caused by the pain on his back, some caused by the anger burning inside of him, but most of it was simply the stuffy air of the stagnant room.

Tossing a bundle of clothing furiously to the side, he stomped over the window, ripped off the black blanket and began tugging at the handle, grunting and groaning and bruising his fingertips as he tried to force it up.

Accepting it wasn’t going to budge, he kicked his way into Merle’s room, picked up his crowbar and thumped his way outside into the darkness. He made his way around the wood panelled home, pushing through the overgrown bushes until he was standing in the square of light coming from his uncovered window. From there he forced the flathead of the bar into the small gap, and using his body weight as leverage, he pulled the bar down, once, twice, and the third time the window, cracked open, sending splinters of wood flying in all directions.

He tossed the crowbar into the darkened bushes surrounding the home and brushed his hands off triumphantly.

The difference in his room could be felt immediately . The fresh air was invigorating, the chittering of insects and croaking of frogs harmonic. He should have pried that window open years ago. It was momentary relief he felt as the cool air blew across his exposed back, but whenever the breeze died down, he was reminded of his anger.

He wasn’t even angry about what Beth had done to him, he should have known to expect the unexpected with the girl. She was like no one he had ever met before. He had felt a good deal of fear and uncertainty in that green room, and normally that would get him into a self-preservation frame of mind. He would get his back up against the wall, and put his fists up. He would re-assert his dominance. But he couldn’t in there, not when he was tied up, and the small and fragile girl had control. He had liked it. He had liked the feeling of helplessness, he had liked having no control, he had liked being dominated. And this was what made him angry.

There was only one way he knew of reasserting his dominance, and that was brawling.

There were a number of places locally where he could go and get into a fight and no one would report it to the police. _Jake’s_ was one of those places. He knew it well. He knew the people that frequented there. He knew Merle would be there to back him up. But he also knew finding someone to brawl would be difficult. He liked most the people there, and the people he didn’t, he would only raise his fists to if they deserved it.

_Joe’s_ was a different story. The bar was still owned by the president of _The Claimers_ and they had been a major rival of the _savage sons_ back in its hay day. Although they had agreed to a ceasefire, the two clubs were on less than friendly terms. It was unlikely to cause an all-out war just by his presence at the place, but there was a possibility someone would want to brawl with him for no good reason, and that was exactly what he wanted.

* * *

 

He parked his motorcycle along the long row of bikes in the parking lot of _Joe’s_ around an hour later.

Two of the clubs associates were standing by the entry of the door and watched him suspiciously as he kicked out the stand and dismounted. He didn’t recognise them, but he knew by the way they whispered to each other and one of them ran off into the bar, that they recognised him.

He considered making it quick and picking a fight with the guy by the door, but he was about a foot shorter than him with arms like twigs. Daryl didn’t hit anyone that was smaller than him unless it was absolutely necessary.

He walked past the man, ignoring his challenging glare, and pushed his way into the roaring activity of the bar.

The majority of patrons ignored his presence, continuing on with their drinking, gambling and whoring. A few of them gave him a double take and then whispered something to a nearby buddy. He managed to make it all the way to the counter of the bar without being challenged, but he didn’t even get to touch the drink he ordered before someone had taken his bait.

Len was his name, a well-known trouble maker for both the county and the club. He was a few inches taller than Daryl, but more lanky and spindly. His hair was long and thick and unkempt, his beard growing wild over his ugly mug of a face.

His eyes were drawn together and creased in intensity, his lips were curled into twisted grin. He sauntered over to Daryl, backed up with two of his toothless cronies, and slipped onto the bar stool beside him.

“Ain’t seen you in these parts for a time, Dixon.” He drawled.

“Been busy.” Daryl turned his eyes straight forward towards the shelves of liquor, a clear sign of disrespect, but he managed to keep his aggressor in his peripheral.

“Why ain’t you over at Jake’s? Pussy no good?” Len sniggered and his friends joined him.

“Ain’t ‘ere for pussy.” Daryl muttered, not moving his eyes from the shelf.

“Oh yeah?” Len cocked his brows. “You got yerself a piece ‘o tail, huh?”

Daryl took a slow sip on his drink contemplating his next move; planning his angle of attack. It was at this time he would usually call up imagery of his childhood to fuel his anger and push him into beast mode. The whippings was a regular, it was what had inflicted him with the most scars, but every time he tried to bring forth the image of his dad standing over him with a switch in hand, all he could see was the slight and fair image of Beth, dancing around him with her whip, smacking it against his skin, the searing pain, and the unexpected pleasure.

He did have himself a piece of tail, and it was attached to the end of her whip.

He had lost all interest in the fight now. He had no desire to get sweaty and bloody and bruised. Not unless Beth was involved.

He pushed away his almost full drink, turned his back on Len, and walked straight out of the bar.

He arrived at her apartment on Thursday afternoon at 2 pm.

On the dot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was a little tester/tease to see how people would take to the unusual treatment of Daryl Dixon's anger. Let me know if you are disgusted, intrigued, aroused (or all three), and if you want to read more.
> 
> I could always use another Beta reader, so if your interested let me know.


	5. Thawing out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Daryl attends his third therapy session.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I tried to explain a little more theory behind Beth's therapeutic practices here. One thing people cautioned me on when I said I was writing this fic was not to make it an abusive relationship, and I'm trying my best to do that. But if you see something that you think crosses the line let me know so I can either fix it or explain it to you.

She was back to her casually dressed self; shoeless and with rips in her jeans. Her hair was loose and cascaded wildly about her face like a fountain of gold. Her face was once again free of makeup, her lips back to a soft natural pink and her large blue eyes no longer shadowed.

She gave him a welcoming grin; large enough to reveal her perfect white teeth, and then stepped away from her apartment door and waved a tiny white hand towards the familiar yellow sofa.

Daryl cautiously stepped past her, keeping an eye on her over his shoulder as he moved through the room. She appeared to be as harmless as a newborn kitten, but after his last session with her, he knew the kitten had claws, and she liked to use them.

She closed the door with a soft click, rearranged the chain, and then sauntered behind him to the centre of the room. Once he was in place she stepped behind the sofa he stood in front of and guided him into a seating position by pressing down lightly on his shoulders.

“How’re you feelin’?” She asked, noticing his wince at the touch of the sofa against his lower back.

“A little sore.” Daryl muttered with a shrug, not entirely sure he wanted to admit that the pain she had inflicted on him had had a hold of his body for a half a week, just as her image had hold of his mind.

“Can I take your shirt of?” The request amenably.

He shrugged out of his vest and let it drop behind him. He went to tug up the hem of his shirt, but found her soft hands intruded into his palms, loosening his grip. He reluctantly held his arms up into the air, allowing her to pull the shirt up over his head.

Beth tsked in disappointment as she examined his back with her head cocked to the side. She folded the shirt over the back of the chair and then walked into the kitchen, where she banged around in her drawers before returning with a small tub in her hand.

“You should’ve taken the salve home with you.” She scolded, as she smeared the cool relief of the gel along the single long red welt that still remained on his back. “This one is gonna leave a scar.”

“s’ok. I got enough of ‘em, and might be a nice change to have one I got by doin’ somethin’ I enjoyed.” He huffed in amusment and then drew in a quick sharp breath as she brushed against a particularly painful part of his back.

“So you _did_ enjoy it.” Beth bent over the sofa, balancing her waist along the backrest so her face was in line with his, her eyes scrutinising him.

Daryl shifted in his seat nervously, as he tried to decide how much he was willing to share. “Don’t get me wrong. It hurt like all fuck.” He said keeping his eyes down and away from hers. “But it was… _intense_. Gave me a bit of a thrill. Don’t think I could ever enjoy bein’ whipped, but the experience as a whole...” He smirked and turned to face her. “Well I’m ‘ere ain’t I.”

“You are.” Beth nodded her head, smiled sweetly and returned to her position behind him so she could tug his shirt back over his head and help him into his vest.

“So you’re like a dominatrix?” Daryl asked her when she had sat herself into her grey arm chair, curling her bare feet up beside her, wriggling her tiny toes painted in baby blue.

Beth turned her eyes up to the ceiling and pressed her lips together, deliberating. “I’m a therapist.” She answered. “Influenced by BDSM practices.”

“And you think that’s gonna help me with my anger?”

“Not so much your anger, more your need to dominate. I’m hopin’ to condition you to see there is strength in submission and pleasure in pain.”

Daryl leaned forward in his seat, resting his elbows against his knees, and stroking the hair on his chin between his fingers. “Am I gonna get a hard on every time someone punches me in the face?”

Beth stifled a laugh with her fingers against her lips. “That’s not the way it works. I’m using the physical pain as a trigger. But what I’m then teaching you is to let go of power. To not feel like you need to have control all the time. To not feel like you have to win every battle. I believe It’s feelin’ like you’re bein’ dominated that causes your anger. I want to teach you that you don’t always need to be dominant. I want you to see that letting others have control is fine too.”

Daryl rubbed his chin firmly, tugging down on the hairs that were beginning to grow grey as he thought over what she was telling him. The thought of Beth dominating him made him feel a lot of things, and he was certain some of it was anger, if not at her then at himself; but whatever she was doing it had swayed his decision to beat up on Len the other night.

“Why couldn’t you just explain that to me, instead of makin’ me sign that contract that you knew I wouldn’t understand?”

Beth creased her brow and gently shook her head. She raised her shoulders and turned ut her palms, as if the answer to his question was obvious, “If I told you I was goin’ to tie you up and whip you, would you’ve let me?”

“If you told me you were gonna…” He struggled for the right words to describe exactly what she had done to him. “ _You know_. Afterward. I mighta.”

Beth gave a gentle snort in disbelief and tossed her head. “No you wouldn’t have. Propriety would’ve got the better of you. You never would’ve admitted to yourself that you would be interested in somethin’ like this unless you got to experience it firsthand.”

He couldn’t argue with that. She knew him to well. Guys like him who had spent their adult lives trying to prove their dominance, didn’t easily admit to anything that could be seen as weak. He was definitely intrigued by everything that had happened, and how it had had an instant effect on him, but he was still cautious about how far Beth was willing to go.

“Can I ask you more questions now? If that’s okay. Mistress.” He teased playfully, testing her to see how she would respond.

“You can just call me Beth out here. In the Green room you will call me Miss Greene, and I will call you Mr Dixon.”

“Green room?” Daryl scoffed at the name she had given her chamber. It fitted perfectly. “Where Miss _Greene_ is the boss, right? What about out here, am I the boss?”

Beth shook her head. “There will be two very distinct types of therapy, and I like to keep them as separate as possible. Out here you will be my equal. I’ll be working on giving you social experiences. I’ll take you on field trips of sorts, which will allow me to get to know you better. In there I am in charge. I will be using bodywork exercises designed to use your vulnerabilities and teach you how to deal with and accept them.”

Daryl continued to rub his chin nervously, “That still sounds kinda confusin’.” He admitted.

“Goin’ into this without full understanding is part of the therapy. It leaves you more vulnerable and gives me complete control.”

“That’s why there’re no safe words, right?”

“Yes.”

“And that’s why you have those limits in the contract, so you can’t break my bones or do nothin’ extreme?”

“That’s exactly right. Although you will be experiencing pain, it will still be in a safe and secure environment. With someone you can trust to test you, but not do anything to you that you can’t handle.”

“But you can still do whatever you want to me?”

The smirk that tugged at Beth’s fine lips made his spine tingle as he envisioned all the depraved thoughts she was having, “As long as it’s within the limits.” She murmured.

Daryl released his chin, and let himself sink back into the chair with a long, drawn out sigh as he considered his next question; The one which had been weighing heaviest on his mind since he had left her apartment a few days earlier.

“Other clients. When you get ‘em are you gonna be doin’ whatever you want to them too?” His foot began twitching nervously, tapping against the coffee table in front of him. “I don’t know about seein’ you after another guy has…”

“I won’t be getting any more.” Beth interrupted quickly, holding up a hand before he could say more. “For health and safety reasons, I will only work on you until our contract is over. This is also why I took your blood. I need to make sure we are both being as safe as possible, while still gettin’ the most out of the therapy.”

Daryl felt a sense of relief as he finally understood what the unusual procedure had been about. And then the relief grew into a possessive pride as he realised everything she had to offer was for him only. For a time anyway.

“Safe is good.” Daryl acknowledged with a slow nod of his head.

Beth’s cheeks turned a becoming shade of pink, “I expect there will be a fair amount of _bodily fluids_ involved in our sessions.”

The innocent flush of her cheeks paired with the mention of _bodily fluids_ made his cock twitch in his pants, recalling to mind the memory of his semen collecting on the side of her slender thumb and the dark blood smeared across the delicate pale skin of her petite breast.

“So why me?” He crossed a leg over a knee to hide the growth in his pants, “Why’d you choose me and not someone else?”

“The other people I’ve seen, they didn’t fit the profile.” She informed him.

“You profiled me already?”

She nodded. “I could tell dominance was important to you by the way you tried to control the conversation. There are some scars…” She rubbed a finger across her own collar and brushed a hand across her arms, “…they aren’t very noticeable but I can see they are from childhood, so I can tell it was a rough one. I could tell by your choice of weapon that you want to be unique and not simply follow others and it also told me you are secretive and don’t like letting go of things that belong to you. I could tell you didn’t fear pain by the tattoos on your body. I could tell you were motivated by your eagerness to start the therapy.”

Daryl had put his hand back to his chin in an effort to displace his growing smile. “You’re very observant.” He said while pointing his index finger towards her.

“You’re not that hard to read, you kind of remind me of myself.”

“Really? How so?”

Her eyes dropped and flicked to the side as if she didn’t expect him to question her. “Willing to try new things.” She finally replied. Daryl wasn’t entirely convinced that was the response running through her mind.

“So you gonna tie me up and beat me again?” He asked, glancing over his shoulder towards the green door, hoping he didn’t sound as eager as he felt. “or are we doin’ somethin’… _new_.”

“No.” She shook her head. “Your wounds haven’t fully healed yet. It would be irresponsible for me to reopen them.”

“So what’re we gonna do?”

Her blue eyes grew wide, and her lips pursed into a mischievous smile, “Somethin’ _you’ve_ never done before.”

* * *

 

A statement like that could mean anything for a girl like Beth. He had already come to realise that she was perhaps the least predictable person he had ever met. Even his brother, tweaking on Meth, was more predictable than she was; at least he knew Merle would always be doing something stupid and dangerous. With Beth it could either be euphoric bliss or agonising torture.

They left the building after Beth had put on her sneakers, slung a bright red purse from her shoulder and placed a white wide brimmed sun hat on her head. The spring afternoon sun beamed down from above, and the air was thick with humidity; the first signs that spring had arrived and that rain wasn’t too far away. Daryl was sweating buckets the moment he stepped out of the building as the sun’s rays heated his vest and baked the raw flesh of his back. He began to wish he had left the vest at home and settled for a tee, but the black worn leather was like a coat of armour to him, usually behaving as a deterrent to those who tried to get to close.

But not Beth. She slipped a hand into the crook of his arm as she had before and led him on down the road while she continued with her easy, friendly chatter. Daryl didn’t bother pretending he wasn’t listening this time, he wanted to find out everything this girl had to offer, he even managed to grunt in acknowledgment at the right times and ask a question or two.

The conversation mainly revolved around her interest in music. She liked a whole bunch of folk bands that he had never heard of and a few modern female artists he only knew because they were mentioned on the radio so frequently. It seemed that music was her passion before she started working on her career in therapy. She had even managed to produce her first extended play recording several months back. Her songs never went high in the charts, but that suited Beth just fine, she wanted to share her music without being recognised by strangers in the street, and money didn’t seem to be a problem for her.

They had taken another path that day, heading away from the downtown district and towards the quieter and less cluttered streets, where the buildings remained low and the trees grew freely. Their journey ended with Beth yanking back on Daryl’s arm and pulling him to a sudden stop.

“We’re here.” She declared, pointing a finger towards a tiled plaza, sided by white panelled buildings and filled with a dozen or so bodies, sitting at gleaming metallic tables.

Daryl scanned around the area wondering exactly what was so special about those buildings. Then his eyes rested on the bright bubbly writing that read _Yogurberry._

“Yogurt? He queried.

“ _Frozen_ yogurt.” She corrected, tugging on his arm and urging him to cross the street.

The store was filled with seniors, mothers and their young children and teenage couples on first dates. Not a single one of these people would ever be found in one of the places he was known to frequent.

He stood out like a sore thumb clad in leather with his arms covered in road dust and grease, and being next to Beth, all sunshine and sweetness, only made him stand out even more. He twisted his arm away from Beth’s grip and tucked his hands safely into his jeans. He didn’t need people judging him. Thinking they were an item. Thinking he was no good to even share space with her. He already knew it well enough himself.

“You need to pick your flavour.” Beth encouraged, poking a finger towards a line of dispensers against the far wall, where children swung off handles and squirted streams of yogurt on to the floor, while their parents scolded them an threw up their hands in exasperation.

“I dunno. Vanilla.” Daryl said without even bothering to look what was on offer.

Beth sighed and rolled her eyes, then grabbed him by both shoulders and pushed him right up to the row of machines.

“I don’t do vanilla.” She declared forcefully.

Daryl looked back and forth across the row of dispensers, at the bright, decorative and many coloured labels of flavours he had never tasted and some not even heard of.

“I dunno.” He muttered again with a shrug of his shoulders, feeling suddenly intimidated. He didn’t want to make a fool of himself by ordering the wrong one, and even the dispenser looked confusing to operate. He glanced at the door ready to make a run for it. He wondered how something as non-threatening as frozen yogurt could somehow be quite so menacing.

“ _You_ are havin’ mango.” Beth declared, pulling down a handle and filling a cup with a thick curling stream of yogurt. “ _and_ passionfruit.” She added as she topped up his cup with a second flavour. “and kiwifruit and mochi for toppers.” She finished it off with the green slices of fruit and white balls of… _mochi_ …Daryl had never seen before, and didn’t think he would ever be able to pronounce the name of.

Beth forced the ice cold cup into his hand along with a spoon and flashed a bright smile up at him.

Beth seemed to flourish wherever he would falter.

* * *

 

Daryl was grateful when Beth turned away from the collection of table and chairs, overcrowded with strangers, and instead, headed towards the greenery of the nearby park. There were a few children merrily squawking, as they ran through the playground and one man sleeping under the shade of a birch tree with a newspaper protecting his head from the sun. Daryl assumed he was homeless by the look of his ragged shoes and clothing and the nearby cart stacked with belongings.

Beth seemed to show no aversion to the man as she had shown towards the couple the night she had taken him to _Annie’s basement_. She was content to walk right by him and find a space on the grass little more than a few yards away. Daryl figured there was no threat of him asking to empty her burgeoning wallet while he was sleeping.

Beth dropped herself gracefully to her knees, and then crawled on to her abdomen, kicking her sneakered feet back into the air.

With one hand propping the side of her head she used the other to scoop a large spoonful of yogurt into her mouth. It was green tea flavoured, apparently. She had covered it with so many toppings you couldn’t see anything green about it.

“So, are you gonna give it a try?” Beth asked, peering at him from under the brim of her hat and flicking her spoon towards the cup in his hand.

He took up a spoonful of the gold, white and green lumpy sludge and scooped it into his mouth. The first thing he noticed was the cold; crisp and fresh, perfect for the warm day. The second thing was the flavour, both sweet and sour, a confusion of flavours that seemed to meld together so well. He tried to hide the small satisfied smile on his lips by filling his mouth with another spoonful.

“It’s nice, right?” Beth queried.

“It’s cold.” He mumbled through numb lips.

“That’s what makes it nice.” Beth rolled to her side, looking up at him as she continued sucking yogurt of her spoon and licking her soft pink lips.

“Sit down, Daryl” She said reaching out to tug on the leg of his jeans, “you look like my body guard just standin’ there like that.”

He didn’t think anything could be more awkward than sitting in a park with his unwashed hair, black leather vest and arms spotted with backyard job tattoos, while eating frozen yogurt with a pretty young thing half his age. Except maybe standing by her like a prominent dark sentinel. So he obeyed, dropping himself beside her, crossing his legs so his knees protruded out of the ragged holes in his jeans.

“So how come you never had frozen yogurt before? It’s available in all the grocery stores.” Beth asked between her mouthfuls.

Daryl swallowed his own mouthful, “Never had no need. Most my food comes from the drive-thru or whatever I bring home from a hunt. I ain’t one to just go and buy somethin’ cause I never tried it.”

“But that’s all gonna change now, right? The tryin’ new things? You liked all the new things I’ve shown you haven’t you?”

Daryl kept his eyes down on the cup of yogurt, he was eating far too eagerly, while he considered her question. “I guess.” He said with a shrug of his shoulders.

Raising his eyes to her face, he knew it wasn’t only the yogurt she was talking about when she leant forward and wiped a moistened finger across his lips and then licked it clean of the excess yogurt she had collected, reminding him of a similar event that had occurred in her _green room_.

Knowing what the girl _could_ be, he was amazed how she lay there looking so innocent in her torn jeans and casual sneakers, her golden locks waving about her face and blue eyes wide and full of wonder as she fed herself spoonfuls of candy covered frozen yogurt.

“Tell me sometin’ Beth,” He said pointing his spoon in her direction, “How did a sweet young thing like you get into doin’ what you do?”

Beth’s attention went back to her almost empty cup of yogurt. “It was never part of the plan. I was just gonna be your average run of the mill therapist before I met Zach.”

“The guy who owns _Annie’s_?” Daryl attempted to clarify.

“Yeah. I met him at college while I was doing my research on traumatic triggers. He was writing a thesis on simulating trigger events during psychotherapy. He had this theory that he could condition people to feel positive emotions instead of negative ones, and he let me share in his findings.”

Daryl bit down on his lip as jealousy punched him in the guts. It was bad enough picturing them fucking up against her college dorm wall, now he was picturing her beating him, or him beating her, and then fucking in the most perverse ways possible while they rolled around in a mixture of blood and semen.

“So did you do him or did he do you?” Daryl muttered, not really wanting to know the answer, but filled with the twisted need to self-punish.

Beth chuckled. “Neither. Zach has never touched me in any way, and I’ve never touched him. But he did let me watch when we worked on some of his subjects. And I took very thorough notes.”

Daryl tried not to smile as the wave of relief cooled his hurt ego.

“He found that many people felt that re-living their experience of submission was very liberating when it was within a safe and controlled environment. Especially in cases where their dominant appeared to be much more fragile and weak than they were.”

Daryl smiled to himself, agreeing with that part of Zach’s research. There was no doubt there was something satisfying about being beat about by someone as small and soft as Beth, “and that’s where you found your calling?”

Beth gave a small nod of her head, “but he also found that sometimes it was better for people who had never had the chance to show their strength before, if they were able to act as the dominant one.”

Daryl contemplated her words as he licked his spoon clean, “so if you could pair the two up, it would be a win-win situation, wouldn’t it?”

Beth avoided his question by reaching for a nearby patch of daises, and tugging a handful out of the grass, “Why don’t we talk about you. This is after all _your_ therapy session. Let’s talk more about your dad.”

Daryl was surprised by her choice of topic, “Really?”

“Really.”

Daryl looked at their surroundings; the kids squealing on the playground, the couples walking hand in hand on the sidewalk. The homeless man that might be able to hear if they spoke too loudly, or if he were awake.

“Here?”

“Why not? It’s a nice day, were havin' a nice treat, you’ve got good company.”

Daryl reached into his back pocket and pulled out a cigarette from the half crushed case, if he was going to be put on the spot out in public, he at least needed a smoke in his hand. He held the filter of the cigarette to his lip, contemplating if he should take his last chance to run, or fully submit to her will.

“A’right. What do you wanna know?” he finally said.

“Tell me about the first time he hurt you.”

“You really are direct.” Daryl said flicking at his lighter and putting the flame to the tip of his cigarette.

Beth rolled on to her back with a handful of chained daises and continued weaving them together across her chest, “well we’ve only got nine sessions left.”

Daryl nodded his head as he blew out a puff of smoke. He drew his knees in towards his chest protectively, and stared into the glowing embers of his cigarette hoping the burning orange light could distract him from his discomfort.

“The first time was when I was real little. My mom was still alive so I don’t think I was even in grade school. He had always been aggressive t’wards me; didn’t like me makin’ too much noise or mess, lookin’ at him the wrong way, bein’ in the same room as him. Existin’.

He and Merle had always rubbed each other up the wrong way and I had seen what he did to Merle, so I just tried to stay out of his way, but it’s kinda hard when you live in the same house.”

He snickered to himself, trying to laugh off some of the building tension. Beth quickly looked up at him with a solemn face, and then went back to weaving her daisies.

“That first time was over somethin’ dumb. He stepped on a toy that belonged to me or some shit. I don’t know where my mom was, maybe she was out, maybe she was still in bed; she was never one to step up for me or Merle anyways.

He came bargin’ into my room, screamin’ at me with words so fast and loud I didn’t know what he was sayin’. Grabbed me up by my collar, wound back and slapped me across the face.

It wasn’t the first time I had ever been hurt; I was no stranger to cuts and grazed knees. I had got into scruffs with the neighbourhood kids plenty of times, and Merle had giving me my fair share of noogies, but it was the first time I had been hurt by _him._ And the sting of his hand across my cheek was nothin’ compared to the realisation I was gonna end up just like Merle.

So I cried, cause I didn’t know what else to do. Not like I could hit the guy back, he was five times the size of me and I’m sure that woulda made it worse. So then he told me to “quit cryin’ like a little bitch!” and slapped me again.

I did try to control it, but my face hurt so bad, and my chest hurt so bad from tryin’ to hold it all in, and my heart hurt, and I was so scared he was gonna throw me against the wall or somethin’ like he did Merle, so I just kept on wailin’, so _he_ kept slappin’ n’ slappin’…until.” He trailed off as the memory of pain, blood and darkness came flooding back, smothering his body in a cold chill.

“Until what?” Beth probed, breaking him from his desolate trance.

Daryl turned his eyes up to the sky and examined the dark rain clouds coming in from over the city, “We should start headin’ back. The rain’ll be here soon.”

He knew they had an hour or so before the rain reached them, but it wasn’t the rain he was trying to run from.

Beth carefully looped a roughly weaved daisy chain over his head, “maybe the green room _is_ a better place to talk.”

Daryl didn’t let the chain sit there long. He tossed it into the nearby bushes as he climbed to his feet, while Beth was distracted readjusting her hat on her head and brushing the dirt from her knees.

Once clean and in order, she strolled on past him with her nose stuck in her purse.

She stopped beside the sleeping homeless man, bent to a knee and tucked what looked like a fifty dollar bill into his jacket pocket.

* * *

 

He rode past the grocery store on his ride home. The memory of the frozen yogurt was still fresh on his mind, the taste had clung to his tongue long after they had left the park, and he still craved its sweet and sour flavour and cool chill.

He never really spent much time in grocery stores, tending to head straight for the essentials; mainly toilet paper. His meals consisted of meat and anything pickled, and he hadn’t cooked anything that wasn’t on a camp fire since he was a teen. On this particular trip, the many sights and smells of food he had never tried managed to catch and hold his attention in a way it never had before.

His shopping trip ended with his saddle bags filled with fruits and vegetables, boxes of consumables and spices he hoped he could magically mix with the rabbit in the freezer and turn into a stew.

He was still stocking the fridge up when his brother came home. Bursting through the front door and hollering through the house.

“Darlina, where you been all day?”

“Told y’ I had my therapy, Merle.” Daryl called back to him.

“Went to the old man’s ‘shine still. Coulda used your help.” Merle floundered as he stepped into the kitchen and assessed the sight of his brother in the kitchen with a paper grocery bags in his arms.

“What the fuck is all this?” He said as he waved his arm in Daryl’s direction.

“Food, Merle. Not everythin’ we eat’s gotta bleed.”

Merle grabbed a loose carrot from his bag and inspected it cautiously, like it might bite him if he held it the wrong way.

“What in hell’s halls has got into you?” Merle exclaimed tossing the carrot over his shoulder carelessly. “You had but one drink at _Jake’s_ the other night. I swear that’s the same pack of smokes you had since Tuesday, and now you’re eatin’ rabbit food?” Merle made a quick examination of him by touching his chin and turning it from side to side, before Daryl swatted his hand away. “You on a diet or somethin’? ‘Cause I know a way at losin’ weight faster than a nose can run.” With a wide grin on his face he tapped on the kitchen drawer where Daryl knew he kept a spare glass pipe.

“I ain’t on a diet.” Daryl grunted in reply.

“Some kinda health kick?”

“No.”

The smile slowly disappeared from his Merle’s face. He took a step closer to his brother with genuine concern creasing around his eyes, “You got cancer or somethin’ little brother?”

Daryl stepped back and took up his protective stance, tucking his hands under his armpits, and leaned back into the kitchen counter. He gave his shoulders a gentle shrug, “Just tryin’ new things, Merle. Just tryin’ new things.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks sillymommy2010 for pointing out my stupid mistakes! lol


	6. Gloves are off

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Daryl attends his second "bodywork" session.

Daryl arrived twenty minutes early to his next appointment. He wanted to make it up to her for being twenty minutes late for his appointment a week earlier. At least this is what he kept telling himself, refusing to admit that it was because she had promised him “bodywork” during this session and he was yearning for her touch; whether it be excruciatingly ecstatic or brutally blissful.

Beth, however, had other ideas, scolding him for arriving early through her intercom and forcing him to wait downstairs in the glass vestibule until the correct appointment time.

He was sure to look suspicious, loitering around the upmarket building dressed in his grease stained jeans and faded tee. People who thought they were better than him strolled past in their designer clothing, walking their miniature dogs, and keeping one eye warily on him. Daryl merely curled a lip at them in a half snarl, and let them believe what they wanted. Yet it did twist his guts and make him feel awkward and out of place. He was relieved when Beth’s cool voice called through the intercom and told him to enter.

He dropped his cigarette to the polished tiles on the floor and extinguished it among the other six butts of cigarettes he had managed to smoke whilst waiting, before entering the apartment block.

She was singing once again when he approached the door, but she stopped and ripped the door open before he had the chance to knock, or to listen to her lyrics.

She had switched back to her more conservative attire, with her hair tied up and her dark make up applied. Her tone of voice was less than courteous as she instructed him to enter her apartment.

“Remove your shirt.” She demanded, closing the door behind him forcefully and reapplying the many locks.

Daryl obeyed immediately, losing himself to her control as he tugged his tee over his head and throwing it to the side.

Beth glared at the tee on the ground with her lips pressed together in irritation, until Daryl got the hint and carefully picked it up, folded it as best he knew how and placed it on to the back of her grey arm chair.

She slowly circled around him, with a hand rubbing against her smooth chin as she examined him. She jabbed a finger into the still healing mark she had left on his back. He flinched at the touch, but didn’t make a sound.

“Your wounds have healed enough.” She said stepping in front of him and she lifted a hand to point towards the row of three doors along the far wall, commanding him without words, to approach the green one.

He did as instructed with her close on his heels, breathing authority across his bare back. Once he was in front of the door she waited impatiently for him to open it, and then gave him a firm shove so he stumbled into the darkness.

The four poster bed appeared under the dull spotlight after Beth had flicked the switch, and Daryl pre-empted Beth and began walking towards it, tugging at his belt. But Beth grabbed him firmly around the bicep and guided him towards the other door in the room, opening the door to reveal a darkened Bathroom.

Beth had covered the wall of windows with what looked to be the green satin bed sheets. Light filtered through the loose weave, but the room was also lit by a single candle, that flickered shadows and light across the gleaming porcelain.

In the wall on the left, was a white painted door that he was sure led into the living area of the apartment. Mounted on the wall directly to his side was a polished granite topped cabinet with twin basins, and a mirror that climbed all the way to the ceiling.

Directly in front of him was a shower hub, twice as large as what he was used to, surrounded on three sides in glass and with two satin steel shower heads, which curled out from the tiled wall.

To the right, under the covered window, was a stepped platform that led to a sunken oval bath tub, large enough for two people to recline comfortably in.

The room was at least the size of his bedroom at home, if not larger, and seemed like an extravagant waste of floor space.

He was not allowed much time to examine the area around him, before Beth pushed him into the centre of the room, instructed him to shower, and then closed and locked the door behind him.

Daryl stripped of his clothes swiftly and dumped them on the floor, before reconsidering and picking them up to fold them neatly and place them on the vanity counter. He washed every part of his body thoroughly, using the extremely feminine smelling strawberry scented soap that was the only thing available, knowing it must be important for him to be clean if Beth had insisted on it.

When he was done, he collected a green fluffy towel, which was the size of a bed sheet, wrapped it around his hips, and then waited patiently for Beth’s next instructions.

When she appeared again, she was back in her militant apparel; Boots that climbed to her thighs, vinyl shorts and a corset top, with the laces crossing over a wide opening that revealed the sides of her small firm breasts. The utility belt, which he now knew carried her protective equipment, was still wrapped about her waist.

The sight of her made his heart jump into his throat and his skin develop a cold sweat, as a wave of anxiety washed over him. He had been waiting a week for this moment, and he was both titillated and terrified.

She pointed a finger back into her dungeon, and Daryl obediently followed it, walking back into the room, only pausing for a moment when Beth ripped off his towel and threw it back into the bathroom before closing the door behind them both.

“Lay on the bed.” She instructed.

Instinctively covering his growing cock, Daryl climbed on to the bed and laid himself amongst the luxurious silken pillows. Until Beth marched over and ripped them out from under his head so he landed back on to the bed with a soft thud. He bit off an abusive outburst at his ill treatment, knowing it would probably earn him a gag.

Beth stood by his side and instructed him to extend his arms and legs towards the waiting cuffs that were chained to the four posts of the bed.

“You don’t have to cuff me no more.” Daryl insisted. “I ain’t gonna go nowhere.”

“Do as you’re told.” She admonished.

He reluctantly let go of his cock, which now stood to attention like a soldier ready for battle, and allowed Beth to snap the cuffs closed around his wrists and ankles.

She then marched over to her glass cabinet where she switched the light on to reveal her array of toys, pulled out a long thin drawer which was also illuminated with an internal light, and retrieved a pair of black fingerless gloves.

The fabric was dark and shimmery and clung to her hands like a second skin when she slipped them on.

She closed the drawer, and turned her back on the displayed items of torture and pleasure empty handed, which only served to further concern Daryl.

She gracefully swung her stilettoed boot over his waist and then, with some readjusting of her vinyl boots, dropped herself on top of his erect cock, forcing it against his abdomen and causing him to grunt in discomfort.

The pressure of her entire body weight on his cock was enough to make his balls draw up in anticipation, but he could also sense the heat coming from behind the thin layer of material that covered her crotch, and the only thing that was stopping his cock from weeping tears of desire, was the mental preparation for the pain that was soon to come.

She started of gently, as she had the last time, stroking her fine fingers across every angle of his face. Brushing over his jaw line and cheek bones, across his brow, down his nose, and then back and forth across his lips. He licked them as her fingers passed, relieving the stinging tingle her touch left behind.

“You’re a very handsome man, Mr Dixon.” She commented as she domineered above him.

Daryl cleared his throat to reply, although he didn’t quite know what to say. He never did on the frequent occasion women complemented him. Beth saved him the need when she suddenly drew her hand back into the air behind her and then let it slap across his cheek with a loud smack that echoed through his ear.

The sensations shocked him due to its suddenness, but it didn’t cause him a great amount of pain. It did however make him blow out a mouthful of air, and his cock twitch, which he knew Beth had felt when she looked downwards, towards her own pelvis.

“Did you like that, Mr Dixon?” She enquired.

Before he could reply, Beth had raised her other hand and slapped him across his other cheek so now both his ears were ringing.

Beth raised her hands in front of her face and readjusted her gloves by pressing between her fingers.

“Do you like these gloves, Mr Dixon?” she asked rhetorically. “I ordered them online. They allow me to slap you as hard as I like, and all I will feel is a tickle.”

With that she tickled her fingers carefully over his chest, but before Daryl could squirm she slapped him again, this time so hard that Daryl expelled all the air from his lungs in shock. He barely had the chance to recover before she had hit the other side, this time catching his nose as he hadn’t quite returned his face to its original position. He yelped in pain, and turned an obscenity into a growl, but Beth ignored it continuing to slap him on alternate sides. He tried hard to hold his face still so as not to further injure himself, tugging against his restrains in an effort to borrow their strength.

The slaps didn’t get any more forceful, but his face was burning hotter and hotter and his cheeks were aching and sure to be black and blue the next day. He forced his eyes closed as he tried to take his focus of his face and place it onto the warmth of her against his cock.

Closing his eyes proved to be a bad idea, as the image of her slight frame perched on top of him disappeared into darkness, and the sound of her voice calling “Quit cryin’ like a little bitch” sounded more like his fathers than her own.

Then the darkness was replaced with the image of his father, holding him against the wall as he slapped him repeatedly, until blood filled his mouth, the room spun around him, his vision filled with stars, and then everything went dark.

It had stopped.

The pain was still there in the throb of his face, but the regular slap that echoed through the room was gone, replaced only by a small sobbing sound that was coming from his own mouth.

He reluctantly opened his eyes, fearing that he might see his father, but it was Beth’s large blue eyes looking down on him, creased in concern. He managed to clear his throat and swallow back the metallic taste and the last of his sobs as he accepted the fact that he was safe from harm and in her care.

A few strands of her hair had freed from her roll, she was covered in a sheen of sweat and her chest was rising and falling in exertion, but she still looked like a flawless angel glowing under the spot light behind her.

She pulled her gloves off her hands, revealing pink palms, and then tossed them aside, before gently caressing his throbbing face.

“I’m sorry he did this to you.” She whispered, as she leant in close to him, brushing her nose against his jaw line. Her mouth moved to his, and her tongue was prying at his lips until he parted them, allowing it flick inside.

He turned his head towards her, trying to catch her mouth in his to return the kiss, but she was gone before he got the chance, and he realised that kissing was never her intention.

He also realised that the taste of blood in his mouth was not a memory, but a reality, when he saw her lick it from her own lips. And then his cock was once again standing at full attention, waiting to see what kind of recovery she had planned for him.

She gently turned his face to the side and placed a fluttered kiss on his cheek, and then did the same to the opposite, before running her lips down over his hair covered chin and along the column of his throat.

The sensation of her lips against his skin changed from soft to wet as he realised her lips had been replaced by her tongue, and she was now delicately lapping and suckling gently on his skin. He let out a small gasp as she brushed over the sensitive skin between his collarbones, and his whole body shuddered as she made her way downward across his chest until her moist mouth was over his left nipple.

He felt the tips of her teeth close around the erect flesh, and he moaned in anticipation of pain, and then moaned again in relief when her teeth barely nipped his skin. She did the same to the other side, and even though he knew what to expect this time, she still elicited the same sounds.

Her weight shifted downwards to his thighs and then between them, and her mouth moved downwards with it, nibbling against his navel and licking along the V of his pelvis that directed her to his cock.

The tips of her fingers gently caressed his hips and then moved up and down the length of his cock as she wriggled her way further down, until she was kneeling on the edge of the bed with her mouth placed at the base of his cock. She extended her soft, wet, pink tongue, pressed it to his shaft and excruciatingly slowly, she dragged it up towards his tip.

He groaned, and arched his back and tugged at his restraints, wishing he could have a more active role in his own pleasure.

When she was finally at the top she flicked her tongue gingerly into the slit, collecting the small amount of pre-ejaculate he had released as her tongue had urged it upwards.

He watched as she ran her tongue over her top and bottom lip as if absorbing the flavour of him. He had noticed the slight quirk to her eye as if she were experiencing the taste of cock for the first time, and he then spent the next few seconds wondering if there was any possibility that was true.

His unjustified thoughts obviously brought on by his possessiveness, quickly slipped from his mind when her hand wrapped around his shaft and helped guide it into the heat of her mouth.

He whimpered like a little lost puppy as he absorbed the sensation; The warmth, the moisture, the pressure of her tongue against the underside of his head, the tickle of her teeth as they brushed against his swollen end, the stroke of her loose strands of hair against his hips.

He twisted his wrists within their restrains wishing he could find a weakness and break free so he could entwine his fingers through her hair, guide her golden head with his hands as she moved her mouth up and down slowly; sucking on as much of his cock as she could fit in her mouth, whilst her hand worked on what remained.

He suddenly wished that she had gagged him after all, as he struggled to hold back the animalistic cries that were threatening to break from his chest out of his mouth. It was like no other blow job he had ever experienced. True he had never had one while sober, but this one was so delicate and explorative it may as well have been his first one.

He could have stayed in that blissful moment forever, if he had any control over his own body, but Beth was in control here, and she commanded his balls to draw tight and cock to fill her mouth with his semen. He groaned loudly with relief up towards the sheer green drapes that floated above his head, as his whole body quivered with ecstasy.

Beth’s mouth removed from his cock when it had stopped spasming, and she sat back on to her heels, looking unsure for the first time since he had met her.

Obviously deciding she was not ready to receive him, she leant forward and spat his ejaculate back out over his abdomen in a spray of white. Daryl might’ve felt a sense of rejection if she didn’t lick her lips and finger tips as if she were tasting a delicious delicacy, and he realised it was more an act of domination than rejection.

“Did you like that Mr Dixon.” Beth asked coyly as she lapped at her fingers.

“Yes.” Daryl whispered.

“Which part?”

Daryl closed his eyes and let out a long sigh. “All of it.” He admitted.

With a satisfied grin Beth turned to release his ankles first and then climbed over him to release his wrists. Once he was free, she skilfully rolled from the bed to stand beside it and released her hair all within a single motion.

Daryl sat up hesitantly and watched her cross the room, making certain she was done with him before rubbing against his bruised wrists, and then against his face as the sensation of pain started to creep back to consciousness.

“You can shower now.” Beth called back to him sweetly as she pushed open the door to the bathroom.

* * *

 

When Daryl had finished his extended shower, spent with his face under the cool stream of one shower head and his body under the heat of the other, he wrapped the towel around his hips and stood before the mirror. The dark shadows caused by the flickering candle danced across his damp skin. He turned his face from side to side examining the redness on his cheek bones that would be purple in a matter of hours. Then he turned around and examined his back, ignoring the age faded scars that marred him and focusing on the single pink line that crossed from hip to shoulder blade.

“What the fuck have you got yourself into, Dixon?” He murmured to himself.

He found that the door back into the green room was locked and he was forced to take the only other exit into the living room.

The room was much darker now, and was only lit by a lamp that stood by Beth’s grey arm chair. Beth was sitting in it with her bare feet curled up beside her dressed in her casual clothes, reading a palm sized book. She looked up at him as he approached with a soft smile and innocent blue eyes, and snapped the book shut.

Daryl simply stood in the doorway regarding her, and wondering how she managed to jump from role to role so seamlessly.

“Are you okay?” Beth called to him, shaking him from his thoughts.

“Yeah, just lookin’ for my clothes.”

Beth indicated to the yellow sofa across from her, where he could see his clothing neatly folded. He walked to the back of the chair, dropped his towel to the floor and began dressing, maintaining his dignity behind the screen of the sofa back, and wondering why he even bothered with dignity in her presence at all.

Beth went to the kitchen, retrieved a cool pack from the freezer and returned to Daryl’s side to press it against his throbbing face intermittently while he dressed. When he was done, Beth handed him the cool pack and then walked to the door and opened it, indicating it was time for him to leave.

As he passed her by he tried to hand the cool pack back but Beth held her hands up in rejection. “You keep it until next time.” She insisted.

“Same time?” he queried.

“No. Let’s make it Friday this time. 2pm. Make sure you’re on time.”

Daryl nodded his agreement and then stepped hesitantly past her, feeling like a physical relationship such as theirs should involve some kind of affectionate goodbye, but also knowing that was an inappropriate thing for client and therapist, or whatever they were to each other.

“Guess I’ll see you then.” He said with a stiff wave, and then forced himself to turn towards the stairway.

“And Daryl,” She called after him, “Bring an overnight bag. We’ll be spending the weekend together.”

He turned back to her with his mouth agape.

“And bring a coat. It can get cold.” The door shut with a click of finality, and he was left alone, out in the walkway, before he could ask her to clarify.


	7. Learning to fly

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it has taken soooooo long to update. Hubby has injured himself and is off work and needs to be looked after like a baby, so the chapters will be coming out slow for the next few weeks.
> 
> Also hate to let my smut fans down, but the story slows down for a few chapters, just working through the character development. It's all important, even the sorting through the washing ;)
> 
> Song - learning to fly by Pink Floyd.

**Learning to Fly**

Daryl spent the entire Friday morning packing his bag, seeking a distraction from the fact that he would be spending a whole weekend with Beth.

A whole weekend.

He wondered how much time would be spent in the green room, and how much time would be spent going on one of her ‘field trips’. He didn’t really care either way, as long as he was with her.

He had never had to pack a bag before. He had never been on vacation, and the only thing that even came close was hunting trips, and he hadn’t been on one that had lasted more than a day since he was teenager. Those times, when he had been quite literally dragged out of bed at three o’clock in the morning, it had just been his dad throwing him into a truck with whatever gear he could get his hands on.

The weekenders he had had in his adult life ─ camp outs for an early morning hunt, drinking ‘til he blacked out and woke up on a strangers couch, being locked up for the night in the county sheriff’s department holding cells─ He had always slept in and worn the same clothes the next day without a problem. When you were surrounded by men who had grown up in broken homes, abused every substance known to man, and spent more time sleeping in a gutter than in a bed, personal hygiene wasn’t high on your list of priorities.

Of course Beth was nothing like the men he had grown up with. She was better than them, and it wasn’t just because she was wealthier and better educated. Even though he cared little for social etiquette, or impressing the wealthy, he wanted to be better than the people he had grown up with, and he was certain that was what she wanted too.

He dug through the piles of flannel, leather and denim clothing that covered his bedroom floor, tossing the objects into the air behind him in frustration as they frequently turned up covered in grease or made him gag when he put his face into them and sniffed. He wished he had bothered to keep on top of his laundry instead of raiding thrift shop bins whenever things got too dirty, and then leaving everything else to collect dust on the floor. His one relief was that he had pried that window open earlier, so he wasn’t overwhelmed with stale smells and dust motes.

Frustrated at his lack of progress, he decided to take another approach; throwing everything into three separate piles among the cramped and mismatched furnishings of his room. One pile for the few clean items he would pack in his bag, one for the dirty items he would wash upon his return home and the third, the items that would go into the trash where they belonged.

Once every item of clothing was in its allocated pile, he collected the clean items; his favourite leather vest which was the only thing he bothered to maintain, a dark grey button up, a red flannel shirt, a pair of dark denim jeans, a couple of pairs of drawers (items which he did not frequently wear), and forced all but his vest into his backpack. Figuring her apartment couldn’t get that cold at night, he decided he would wear a long sleeved button up under his vest to hold in the warmth.

When he was satisfied with his packing he went to the bathroom to collect his toothbrush, but after examining the bristles that had been flattened almost back to the head, he decided it would be better to pick a new one up on the way. Soap he didn’t bother with. After using Beth’s strawberry scented wash, he had smelt like her for days. It had made his dreams pleasant, and that was a nice change.

He considered leaving a note for Merle to tell him where he was. He had tried to inform his brother earlier that week that he would be gone for the weekend, but Merle was in the middle of a drug induced ramble about how he was going to crack some kind of secret code in the periodic table, so he was sure he had paid him no attention; he hadn’t even noticed the bruises that marked his cheeks. He scrawled him the note out on the back of a take-out bag, but then thought better of it and tossed it into the trash. It would just get lost among all of his brother’s mess anyway, and if Merle needed him, he figured he could always call his cell.

He took the bike once more, promising his truck he would drive her when he got home. In the muggy post rain air of Georgia, the wind whipping through his hair and about his shirt was always a welcome sensation.

He still managed to arrive early to her apartment block, despite obeying the speed limits (which he did so rarely) and spending a good deal of time browsing toothbrushes at the grocery store. It had become almost like an addiction to him; attending his appointments. From the moment he left her apartment, their sessions were always on his mind, and in the moments that preceded them, he found it hard to talk, hard to breathe, had to swallow; He was filled with gut wrenching anticipation.

He told himself repeatedly it was just because for the first time in his life, his treatment was actually working. For the first time in his life he could see that he didn’t need to prove himself strong, or to win, or to be in charge. For the first time in his life he saw more pleasure in the world than drinking, smoking and breaking noses.

This is what he told himself.

But deep down inside he knew it was because for the first time in his life, he couldn’t stand to be away from someone.

Despite stalling, he arrived at her apartment fifteen minutes before two, parking his bike alongside the sidewalk under the fresh green growth of the birch tree. He took out the vinyl cover from his saddle bags and draped it over his bike, not wanting it to get damaged by overnight rain. Then he dug into his pockets for his lighter and packet of smokes, and smoked two of them whilst anxiously glancing at his screen watching the minutes flash by.

He hit her buzzer at exactly two o’clock, as he had promised, and got an almost instant response.

“Be down in a second.” Her voice crackled through the intercom.

His hand had dropped on to the door handle before he registered what she had said.

“Wait. What?” He asked the intercom while pressing on the buzzer. But he got no response.

He took out another smoke and consumed it almost entirely in one inhale, while he leant against the glass vestibule wall and dug the toe of his boots repeatedly into the wearing ceramic tile. She was shattering every nerve he had with her unpredictability.

A few moments later, the petite blonde was bounding down the stairs with her pony tail swinging from side to side. A heavy clunking sound echoed from behind the glass, and he saw a fuscia coloured bag roll out behind her.

She shouldered her way through the door and swung her bag out in front of her into the vestibule.

“Have you got your stuff?” She queried.

Daryl awkwardly adjusted the backpack on his shoulder to demonstrate he had it. “What do you need that for?” he asked, jabbing his finger towards her bulging travel bag.

“The cab will be here any moment now.” She replied nonchalantly as she passed him and walked out towards the roadside with the wheels on her bag clicking against the gaps in the pavement.

“Cab?” Daryl dropped his smoke to the ground and scrambled to follow her. “Why? Where are we goin’?”

He hated when she was like this, cryptic and mysterious. Why couldn’t she ever tell him what was going on? He was sure it was just another way she maintained her power over him.

Beth flicked her hair across her shoulder as she looked back at him. Her lashes fluttered over her clear blue eyes and she smiled ever so sweetly, “To the airport of course. You’re goin’ on a vacation.”

* * *

 

If Daryl thought he was a nervous wreck when he was waiting for his next appointment, he was nervous cyclone of reckless destruction now.

As soon as he had stepped out of the cab and walked through the entry doors of the bustling airport, he knew it was going to be a less than enjoyable trip. The airport was packed from wall to wall with bodies of all shapes, sizes, ages, colours and creeds. People all focused on their own lives, rushing to their flights, paying little mind to the existence of others. Daryl barely managed to hold back snarls and growls when they shouldered roughly into him as they passed, but when someone bowled Beth over, he nearly blew his top.

The guy who was two or three times the size of her, sent her small frame sprawling across the dirt printed ground. In one quick stride, Daryl had closed the distance between them, grabbed the guy by the collar of his shirt and prepared to knock his teeth out. Before he felt the flutter of Beth’s hand on his arm, and managed to keep his cool. For her sake.

Once he had pushed his way through the crowds, protectively keeping Beth close to his side, he had been confronted with a row of Drug detection dogs, sniffing the carry-on luggage as passengers made their way to the boarding gates.

Daryl was sure Merle had used his backpack to transport highly illegal substances at some time or other, and could do little but hold his breath as the animals past, hoping he wouldn’t be dragged off to the interview room for a cavity search and be left red faced in front of all these people. Or Beth, as was more the case. He was only marginally relieved when the dogs gave his bag and boots a small sniff, rubbed against Beth’s legs and moved on to the next passenger.

To make matters even more stressful for him, Beth refused to tell him where they were going. She wouldn’t let him see the tickets. She wouldn’t let him examine the arrivals and departures display. She went out of her way to block his view when they walked through the gate and down the long winding tunnel that connected to their plane and to the unknown.

She had purchased them both first class seats; large leather recliners with plenty of leg room, personal television screens, and supplied with an abundance of alcohol. The tranquil music and friendly flight attendants should have made him relax. But when he looked out the window at the only things that would keep him from crashing to the earth in a ball of fire and twisted metal ─ a flimsy looking wing, and a tiny turbine engine ─relaxation was the last thing on his mind.

He wasn’t scared of riding on the open road without a helmet or protective gear. He wasn’t scared of entering a bar filled with the enemy. He wasn’t scared of being tied up by Beth and having her do whatever she wished to his body. But he was positively terrified of flying.

His knuckles were as white as the bone under his skin, as his hands gripped onto the end of the armrest for dear life. He had to keep reminding himself to breathe, although his chest felt so tight and restricted, when he did it was only in small gasps. He was tapping his boots against the airplane partition so forcefully that the console between Beth’s chair and his own sounded as if it would rattle off its hinges. If he wasn’t too terrified to speak or move, he would’ve told Beth she could shove her vacation where the sun didn’t shine, and run from Atlanta all the way home.

“Are you okay?” Beth’s gently intrusive voice called through the images of his feet walking safely across lush green grass and sturdy bitumen.

He tried to answer her, but his words were lost in his terror.

Beth slipped her silken soft fingers over the back of his hand, and interlocked them with his much larger and rougher ones. “Relax.” She breathed, as she ran her thumb over the side of his hand.

The soothing touch provided him enough relief to find the words to talk.

“I can’t relax. There’s a reason God don’t give us no wings.”

“You’re perfectly safe. This airline has got the best reputation for safety. Only one incident in the past five years.”

Daryl swallowed back another mouthful of bile, “Only one?” one too many in his eyes.

“It was a minor equipment fault. They discovered the problem before the plane even left the ground. No one was hurt.”

Daryl closed his eyes and tried to push away the images of what might have happened if they found that same fault when they were 30,000 feet in the air. “I wouldn’t be so damn nervous if you just told me where we were goin’.” He muttered through tense lips.

“Okay.” Beth agreed with a reluctant sigh. “But it’s going to totally ruin the surprise.”

“Last thing I need right now is a surprise.”

Beth kept up with rubbing her thumb reassuringly against his hand, “I wanted to take you as far away as possible, but I didn’t want to take you away for longer than a weekend, and there were only so many places I could take you where you only have a driver’s licence. I assumed you didn’t have a passport?”

Daryl shook his head, “where’re we goin’.” He growled through gritted teeth.

“Canada.” Beth said with a dismissive wave and a gentle shake of her shoulders.

“Fuckin’ Canada!” Daryl exclaimed, his eyes flicking open in surprise.

Taking him not only out of the state, but out of the country was a sure way to take him out of his comfort zone.

He was ready to run now. Swallow back his fear, climb over Beth and race to freedom. That was until the air hostess stood at the front of the aisle and started describing safety procedure; How to use the oxygen masks and the life vests and the parachutes. Then he was frozen in terror. A leather clad, long haired, grease covered statue.

Then the plane started moving and he was watching his freedom roll away underneath the flimsy wings and tiny turbines.

Then the plane started rumbling and shaking, and the armrest was close to crumbling underneath his vice like grip.

Then the plane tilted back, and he let out whimper. He wanted to scream, but he couldn’t breathe deep enough to produce the sound.

Then he heard a soft melody drifting from his side; the soothing dulcet sound of Beth’s voice. He turned to look at her face and see her smiling lips form the words. Her thumb stroked slowly and regularly across the back of his hand and he allowed his breathing to match her movements. He pushed himself back into his seat, closed his eyes and felt his tension ebb and then disappear as he lost himself in her song.

 _Ice is forming on the tips of my wings_  
Unheeded warnings, I thought, I thought of everything  
No navigator to find my way home  
Unladened, empty and turned to stone  
A soul in tension -- that's learning to fly  
Condition grounded but determined to try

_Can't keep my eyes from the circling skies  
Tongue-tied and twisted just an earth-bound misfit, I_


	8. Thawing Out

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I sent this to my Beta reader a week ago, but then I made more changes and didn't want to make my addicted readers wait any longer, so this may be a little unpolished.
> 
> Constructive criticism welcome.

**Thawing Out**

They arrived at Vancouver airport in the middle of the night, or so it seemed. The sky outside was so dark it would’ve been mistaken for midnight in Georgia, even though it was only seven o’clock.

As soon as Daryl had stepped out of the airport doors, he wished he hadn’t been stupidly stubborn and refused to let Beth buy him that coat.

It was spring─ Or at least it was in Georgia. It was warm and the air was thick with the threat of rain ─ Or at least it was in Georgia. The heat absorbed from the daytime sun beating down on the Earth, rose up from the cooling ground and warmed his skin ─ Or at least it did in Georgia. Here, in Canada, it was like the dead of winter. The air was icy and bit right through his thin layer of clothing. The frosty ground did nothing but turn his toes into little icicles inside his boots. He could only be thankful that there was no snow to be seen.

The people who cluttered the sidewalk, locals he presumed, only wore perhaps one or two more layers than he did, but he could tell the cold didn’t bother them as it bothered him. They, after all, could still move their limbs, and did not wear thick gloves, beanies and scarves, which was what Daryl was wishing for.

The whiskey he consumed on the plane did little to warm his blood now. He blew on his hands to heat them, watching plumes of steam escaped his mouth and disappear into the night air. It reminded him somewhat of his thirty year old addiction.

He wanted to reach into his pocket for his packet of cigarettes and smoke ten of them to make up for the four hour flight, but his hands were so numb he was sure he wouldn’t even be able to grip his lighter, let alone open it.

His teeth chattered and his hands trembled, and he could barely feel his frozen feet as he dragged them over the pavement, following Beth towards a sleek and shiny black BMW with _Four season_ written in golden script on the side.

The short, dark haired driver exited the vehicle as they approached and walked towards Daryl, his quizzical eyes studying him from beneath bushy eyebrows. Daryl wasn’t certain if the look was because Daryl was the only one in the entire country not wearing a coat, or if it was because he and Beth made such a mismatched pair.

He attempted to take Daryl’s backpack, but Daryl clutched the strap to his shoulder and shook his head in refusal. Not only did he not want to part with his meagre belongings, and last bit of home, but he didn’t want to be rid of the only thing that was keeping his back warm.

Beth appreciatively handed her travel bag to the driver and he tucked it neatly into the trunk of the car before opening a door and holding it for them to enter.

Daryl was quick to slide into the car, grateful to be out of the icy air, and found marginal comfort inside the leather seated shelter. He shifted his backpack between his knees and tucked his hands into his arm pits to keep them warm while his teeth chattered on.

“Could you turn up the heat, please?” Beth requested of the driver, as she stepped into the car. “My stubborn friend here isn’t used to a British Columbia spring.”

Daryl wanted to make a smart ass comment about how he didn’t realise British Columbia was found at the ends of the earth, besides the devil’s ass crack, inside an ice box, but he was too cold to talk.

Beth smirked at Daryl, turning her blue eyes up to his face as she drew herself into him, sharing her body warmth. Beth had thought to bring a long woollen overcoat and gloves to keep herself warm, but the tip of her nose was still tinted with red and her cheeks were flushed.

She put the fingers of her gloves in her mouth and tugged them off with her teeth. The thoughts of the last time she removed her gloves would’ve made Daryl’s cock twitch. If he could feel it.

Her hot as coal hands found Daryl’s and pried them away from his armpits so she could draw them forward into the stream of hot air that blew out the heating vents.

“Is this better?” She asked, glancing back to him with a smug smile.

Daryl scowled at her, annoyed she always had to be so cryptic and couldn’t just tell him what was happening so he could be prepared.

“Yeah.” He replied shortly. Then after a moment he added. “Thank you.”

* * *

 

Little could be seen out the window as they travelled in the car. They had left the bright lights of the city some time ago, and now, everything was shadowed in darkness, apart from a small patch of light around the moving car. As the journey progressed a dull ache developed in his ears, and drifts of white began to attack the windows. He knew this meant they were travelling up the mountains, and they were going to be surrounded in snow.

He had never been a big fan of snow. It was cold and wet and the hunting was never as fruitful. He had seen many harsh winters in the mountains where he grew up, but since he had moved southward he had only seen snow two of three times, and it had only lasted a few days. But from what he could see out the window, the snow here covered the land in a thick blanket, and looked like it would be there for months to come, and would definitely be present for the entirety of their stay.

The hotel resort that appeared upon the mountain path was a collection of tall peaked roof buildings that made shining beacons of light amongst the dark shadows of tall pine trees and jagged mountains. It reminded him of Christmas cards he never got from the other kids at school.

Their car pulled up in front of the foremost building, where a concierge approached them wearing a long dark coat, gloves and a hat, and Daryl was reminded of the cold he was about to face.

When the driver opened the door Daryl was met with a blast of icy air, only made worse due to the contrast of the heat in the car. He didn’t want to leave its warmth, but Beth was pushing against him, urging him out, so he stepped out into the thin, frozen air and let the cold steal his warmth away.

The path from the car to the hotel foyer had been cleared of snow, but the ground was still icy and slippery, and Beth had to save him ─ as if he were some helpless child ─ from slipping onto his back side several times as he tried to race to the doors and get out of the cold.

The inside of the building was toasty warm, heated by a large fire, dancing in a full wall of stone fireplace. The floor was slate tile covered with woven patterned rugs and runners. The high ceiling was vaulted, with rustic looking circular chandeliers hanging from its exposed beams. The centre of the lobby was filled with heavy looking wooden furniture and chocolate brown leather seats. The interior was pleasant and comforting, but Daryl refused to smile.

He followed Beth down the corridor to a reception area tucked into a timber panelled alcove where a female receptionist ─ several years older than Beth, and several years younger than himself ─ was attending. She glanced at Beth and then looked Daryl over from top to toe and Daryl saw she was making a similar assessment to the driver who collected them from the airport.

“Checking in?” She queried with a forced smile under her stony gaze.

“Yes. We have a room booked. It’s under Greene.” Beth said, stepping towards the counter.

The woman searched through the drawers of the desk in front of her and produced a pair of white cards and pressed them onto the counter in front of Daryl.

“Here are your keys, Mr Greene.”

“I ain’t Mr Greene.” Daryl said as he took a step back from the desk and held up his hands defensively.

The receptionist looked back and forth between the two of them with a puzzled expression on her face, before she spoke again Daryl noticed a glint of assumption in her eyes.

“Of course. The room was booked under your name, Miss?” She asked of Beth.

Daryl knew what that assumption was now. Not only did she think he had whisked a girl half his age away to the middle of nowhere, but also that he was sneaking behind his non-existent wife’s back. Little did she know that Beth was only paying because he was a no good, jobless redneck and he could never afford a place like this through any legal means. It made him wonder how Beth could possibly afford such a thing with the insignificant amount the state had allocated her.

“Yes.” Beth confirmed for the receptionist. “It was part of a surprise.” She smiled up at Daryl, but he still had his face set in a scowl from when he had felt the receptionist judge him.

“Well, we have given you the executive suite on the top floor, as requested. And we have put all the items you requested in your room, Miss Greene.”

“Thank you.” Said Beth, “And dinner, have we been reserved?”

“Yes, Miss Greene. Although the kitchen closes in less than an hour, so I suggest you attend the dining room as soon as possible.”

“Thank you.” Beth said again then dug into her bag, pulled out a handful of Canadian dollars and pressed it into the woman’s hand as a tip. Daryl had half a mind to grab it back out, feeling it wasn’t in her job description to judge her customers, but he didn’t want to add “tight-ass” to “adulterer” and “dirty old man”.

* * *

 

The suite was decorated in much the same way as the lobby, with heavy rustic furniture, thick patterned rugs and drapes ─Which he was sure hid a superb view─ and a stone fireplace blazing gas fuelled flames on artificial logs. The suite did have a more homely feel than the lobby with soft looking sofas, a television set surrounded by a carved wooden frame, and fresh cut tulips in a large vase that sat on top of a highly polished piano.

“How much is this all costin’ you?” Daryl asked as he hesitantly dropped his back pack on to the sofa and began peeling off his vest, which was now causing him to sweat.

“Don’t worry about it.” Beth said with a dismissive wave. “This is a business trip; my taxes will pay for it.”

“I don’t think this is what the IRS would consider a business trip.” Daryl replied, unconvinced.

“I said not to worry about it, Daryl.” Beth replied in her commanding voice, which meant he wasn’t to question her. She stepped towards him and put her hands gently to his cheeks so she could cradle his face in her palms.

“This is a mini vacation. Just for you. So you can try new things. I want you to enjoy yourself and not worry about silly things like money.”

Daryl thought that money was only silly to those who could afford to waste it on places like this, and people like him.

Beth released his face, and took hold of his arm, pulling him along beside her as she walked through the living area of the suite and towards an open doorway that led into a bedroom with a large comfortable looking bed, framed by high-lit artwork, and directed him towards a large tiled bathroom, separated only by a screen of false climbing vines.

“Now you can have a shower and get ready for dinner.” She commanded, before leaving the room and closing the door behind her.

The bed, with its oversized pillows and soft looking crisp white sheets, looked more enticing to Daryl than the shower. His limbs were heavy and stiff from the long flight and drive. The whisky he had consumed on the plane still lingered in his blood, making him feel slow and groggy. He could have easily curled up fully clothed and slept the rest of the night away, but he had little to eat on the flight over and his stomach was growling at the thought of food. So he dropped himself down onto the bed, tugged off his boots, stumbled into the bathroom, dropping his clothing on the way, and took the shower Beth demanded he have.

He probably spent more time in there than he should have. The soothing streams of hot water had nearly sent him to sleep, and more time had been spent leaning his forehead against the tiles and letting the heat massage his neck and shoulders, than actually washing himself. He did however managed to emerge with washed hair and skin smelling of hotel soap lavender.

He went searching for his clothing first, sure that he had left them on the bathroom floor, but there was nothing there. He stepped into the bedroom, heading towards the living room to retrieve his backpack, but something on the bed caught his eye before he made it to the door.

Someone, and he was sure it was Beth, had laid finely made designer men’s clothing out neatly on the bed.

Daryl picked the items up to inspect them. A pair of dark denim jeans, grease and tear free, with strong stitching and false whiskering. A shale grey button up, collared shirt made from a silken fine cotton blend. A tan coloured, unlined leather jacket, that was designed more for looks than for warmth, and on the floor by his feet were a pair of neat un-scuffed lace up boots.

The articles certainly were not his own clothing, and they weren’t something he would normally wear, but she had chosen well, in a style he wouldn’t be embarrassed to wear, and he was grateful there was no tie to be seen.

Daryl glanced towards the bedroom door, where soft music was drifting from, and wondered what she had planned for him now. He decided he would play at her game of dress up, considering the last time he had refused to let her dress him, he had suffered for it.

He tugged the jeans on, wriggling them over his hips as he tried to adjust to the slim fit, then pulled the shirt on and deliberated on whether it was the type to be tucked in or out. He pulled the jacket on and swung his arms in circles trying to break in the fabric over the thick bulk of his shoulders, and lastly put on his new boots.

When he approached the door and pushed it open a crack he recognised that the slow resonant tune was coming from the piano and it was Beth’s voice singing in harmony with it.

 

_I saw who you were holding, I saw her in the night  
I saw her when you smiled at me and said you’d do me right_

_I know that you have others, I know I’m not alone  
Oh how I wish you took me home_

Daryl recognised the lyrics from the first song he had heard her sing while standing outside her apartment; the one he was sure was about a past love.

Beth had continued singing further verses but as he had stepped through the door and got a full view of Beth, an involuntary choking sound had escaped his throat and alerted her to his presence.

Beth was cute when she was dressed in her torn jeans and oversized sweaters, she was sexy when she was dressed in her black vinyls and leathers. Now, wearing a mini dress made of shimmering black fabric that clung to her slight figure, her hair neatly curled, cascading down her back and pinned away from her face, and her dazzling blue eyes highlighted with dark lashes, she was so mesmerizingly beautiful that he was literally choking on his words.

Beth abruptly stood before the piano, looking flustered as if she had been caught doing something wrong. She took a step towards him and then stopped suddenly, reflecting the look he must have had on his face; eyes wide and mouth agape.

“You look amazing.” She exclaimed as she purposefully crossed the room to meet him.

“I uh…” Daryl faltered. “You too.”

“I wasn’t sure if this would fit over your shoulders. They’re so broad.” She said as she adjusted the jacket, then untucked his shirt, straightened his collar and ran her fingers through his hair. “But you look perfect.”

“What’re we gettin’ dressed up for? This place we’re eatin’ at, it ain’t real fancy is it?” Daryl allowed Beth to continue grooming him while he flicked his eyes between the lamps and paintings that were placed on the walls, trying to take his focus off how stunning she looked, how delicious she smelt, how soft her touch was, and how the only thing he hungered for now was her.

“It’s not _fancy_. I just wanted our first night on vacation to be special.”

Her fingers moved from his hair to his jaw and then pinched his chin.

“And I may have just wanted to dress you up, and make you look pretty.” She said with a smirk and a gentle tug on his whiskers.

…

The restaurant was fancy, at least it was fancy compared to all the run down, dank and dirty, fowl smelling, biker filled diners that Daryl had ever eaten a meal at.

Grand wooden chandeliers filled every inch of ceiling with false candlelight. Every section of stoned wall carried a carving, landscape painting, or antlers from a beast two times as large as Daryl had ever bagged. A pianist was playing ambient music in the background, but Daryl didn’t think he played anywhere near as well as Beth. That sound mingled with the chorus of clattering cutlery and idle chatter. The chairs were lined with plump cushions and were so solid and heavy the waiter looked strained when he lifted them out for Beth and then for Daryl.

The waiter carefully slipped Beth’s jacket over her shoulders, allowing the smooth curve of her skin to be highlighted by the glowing overhead light, and folded it neatly over his arm before disapearfing behind Daryl’s back

The sensation of the waiter’s hands at Daryl’s shoulders made him jump with surprise and he took a defensive step away, with arms raised ready to fight off his attacker.

“Your jacket, sir?” The waiter placated.

“Nah.” Daryl said, dropping his hands but continuing to give the waiter an intimidating glare. “I can take care of my own jacket.”

He sat down in the chair, without removing his jacket, and dragged it forward, brushing away the waiter’s hand when he tried to assist, and then examined the table before him.

The table was topped with a several glass dishes, each containing a lit, floating candle, a satin steel pitcher covered with droplets of condensation, and a collection of cutlery that caused Daryl to crease his brow in confusion.

Laid before him were not one but two glasses ─one of which the waiter filled with chilled water from the pitcher ─ two fine china plates, two knives, two glasses, three forks, three spoons, and a square of white folded and freshly ironed linen.

“Why do we need so much shit?” Daryl asked as he poked at the shining cutlery that needlessly cluttered his dining space.

“It’s for each course. Entrée, Main and Dessert.” Beth advised him seemingly unfussed by the clutter.

Daryl picked up the smallest fork, unusually shaped and something he had never seen before. “This is an entrée fork?”

Beth giggled. “No that is a dessert fork. This medium sized one here is a…well… it’s a salad fork, but you might use it for your entrée.”

Daryl examined the outlay before him; he thought it wouldn’t be that hard to figure out. The last course uses the smallest cutlery, the main course the largest, simple enough.

“This spoon… is a dessert spoon?” Daryl attempted to confirm, lifting up the smallest spoon. He had always used them for his coffee, but perhaps he had it all wrong and they were meant for desserts, there was no mug about after all.

“No.” Beth stifled a laugh with a delicate movement of her hand across her lips. “That’s a teaspoon. It’s for stirring your....”

“I know.” Daryl cut her off. “I may be a dumbass but I ain’t an idiot.”

Daryl then picked up the square of fabric, and shook it out to examine it.

“It’s a napkin.” Beth advised him, as she tucked her own napkin neatly over her thighs.

“I know what it is.” Daryl snapped, even though he hadn’t been entirely sure. The only napkins he had ever used had been made of paper and a quarter the size. He originally thought maybe it was a tablecloth the waiter had forgotten to put on the table. He was starting to realise why the Dixons didn’t go to restaurants.

The waiter returned to their table with menus, neatly bound in leather, and Daryl opened his to reveal that half of it was written in a foreign language.

“I thought they spoke English here.” Daryl said as he turned the menu this way and that trying to decipher the words.

“They do, but many people also speak French. It’s a courtesy that most hotels here have.”

“You come here often?” Daryl enquired as he flicked through the pages, skipping all the French meals and looking for something that seemed American.

“I’ve been a few times with my daddy, although we didn’t stay here.”

Daryl figured her rich _daddy_ probably owned himself a private ski lodge out in the mountains, and another wave of disentitlement hit him as he was reminded that he and Beth were in completely different leagues, and shouldn’t be seen together.

Especially not in a place like this.

“I’ll just get a steak.” Daryl said, aggressively tossing the menu across the table and almost knocking over Beth’s glass of water.

“What about an entrée?” Beth enquired calmly as she stilled her wobbling glass with her hand.

“I don’t want no fuckin’ entrée.” He took a breath, trying to control his in-built need for foul language when he something was bothering him, “I just wanna eat and get the hell out o’ here.”

He tugged at the collar of his shirt and undid the top button, suddenly feeling constricted. He didn’t want to get snappy at her, but he was becoming increasingly uncomfortable with the game of dress ups and tea parties with the fair princess.

“You need to relax, Daryl.” Beth said, her eyes analysing the movement of his fidgeting hands. “ I’ll order us some champagne.”

Daryl began to protest, his blood was still filled with whiskey, but he was certain a little more alcohol couldn’t make things worse. Or at least it couldn’t make him any more uncomfortable. So he waited anxiously for the bottle to arrive listening to Beth’s rundown of the French menu, trying to avoid the gaze of nosy onlookers who continued to stare at the beauty and the beast.

After a short moment, two waiters attended the table with an ice bucket in a stand, and a bottle of champagne, which one of them presented to Daryl as if they needed his approval. Daryl just waved it off, not understanding the gesture, and the waiter filled both his and Beth’s glass; A third glass, this one long and thin and a tapered at the bottom.

Daryl was relieved when they removed the rounder looking glass on a stem to help ease some of his confusion.

With the champagne poured and the excess glass cleared away, the waiter turned to Daryl to collect the order. Daryl merely looked to Beth for assistance, unsure of what he was supposed to say, until Beth got the hint and took over.

“We’ll just have the house soup for an entrée. Something light.” Beth said smiling up at Daryl, imploring him to accept her choice. “I will have the _Terrine_ for the main and he will have the steak.”

“And how would you like your steak, sir?” enquired the waiter, turning his attention back to Daryl.

Daryl rubbed his chin and glanced towards Beth, hoping she would give him some clue as to what he meant.

“I dunno.” He said with a shrug. “At the table I guess.”

Both Beth and the waiter laughed and Daryl glared at them angrily, realising he was the centre of some joke he didn’t understand.

“He means how would you like it cooked. Rare? Medium rare? well done?” Beth clarified.

“What is it with you rich folk and bein’ so complicated? You only need one fork. And there’s only one way to cook a fuckin’ steak. Until it’s hot and won’t make me puke the next day. So just cook the damn thing!” Daryl snatched up his champagne glass and drained it in one long gulp. “And get us another bottle of this bubbly shit, ‘cause this ain’t gonna be enough to get me through.”

“He’ll have it medium.” Beth said to the waiter with a forced smile after he had finished his tirade. The waiter bowed, looking anxiously towards Daryl and then disappeared with the menus under his arm.

“Are you okay?” Beth enquired, turning concerned eyes in his direction. “You seem kinda stressed.”

“I’m fine.” Daryl paused and looked around the room at the eyes that were still fixated on him. An older woman with flame read hair, dripping in jewellery. A middled aged woman with short brown hair dressed in a sophisticated looking pant suit, a girl a little younger than Beth, staring at him with her mouth agape, whilst being gently nudged by her father, Daryl assumed to tell her to mind her manners and stop looking at him like he was a zoo animal.

“It’s just. I don’t know what I’m doin’ here.” He mumbled. “Everyone keeps lookin’ at me. I don’t belong.”

Beth turned in her seat and made a quick sweep of the room.

“Maybe they’re looking at you because you’re nice to look at.”

“No. There are guys lookin’ too.” He said as he glared at a man with golden hair who had twisted in his seat in order to see him. “They think I shouldn’t be ‘ere. I shouldn’t be with you.”

Beth made another quick sweep, stopping when she caught sight of the blonde man who quickly turned back around to face his wife, and then she turned back to Daryl, grinning widely.

“Like I said, they could just be lookin’ at you because you’re nice to look at.”

Daryl opened his mouth, and let it hang open for a moment, wordless. The man didn’t seem gay, although he wasn’t entirely sure what gay looked like, but he was sure they didn’t look like men who were dining with their wives, so surely Beth was just trying to make him feel better. He closed his mouth and picked up the champagne for another drink, and then sat in silence, sulking and feeling awkward, tapping his foot nervously against the table.

“I think they can see the redneck through the pretty jacket.” Daryl grunted. “You rich people have a deadbeat radar or some shit.”

Beth chuckled and tossed her head. “Daryl, most of these people aren’t _rich_ , this is just a family restaurant, no-one thinks you’re out of place.”

Daryl shrugged his shoulders, keeping his eyes fixed on his hand clasped before him, one thumb picking at the skin of another.

“You’ve never eaten in a restaurant before? A diner maybe?” Beth enquired, sipping slowly on her champagne.

“Nah. Not a fancy three course meal, and don’t see the point of wastin’ money on a steak that needs to be cooked a certain way when I can cook my own steak just fine on the grill in my back yard.”

“It’s not a waste. It’s a treat.”

“I don’t have money for treats.” He pouted.

Beth leaned back in her chair, the rim of the champagne glass pressed to her lips “Where do you get your money?” She enquired. “I mean…where does your brother get his money. What is it you do with him?”

Daryl glared up at her wondering how much of the truth he was willing to tell.

“He sells merchandise.” It wasn’t a complete lie.

“Oh. So you’re like a sales man?”

Daryl shook his head as he reached for his glass and sucked down another mouthful.

“I work in debt collection.”

Beth scrutinised him from the other side of the table, an eyebrow raised sceptically, lips pursed in disbelief.

“Oh.” She finally replied, dropping her eyes and replacing her glass on the table.

Daryl knew she was no fool, she could put two and two together. Ex- outlaw bike club member, frequent assault charges, collects debts for his ex-con brother. If she hadn’t put together the clues, she had probably read his record. She knew exactly what he did for money.

They sat in silence for a moment Beth watching his ever movement, Daryl twitching so hard the cutlery rattled the table and ripples waved through the liquid in the glassware.

“It’s Chopin.” Beth finally said out of the blue and seemingly to no one in particular.

“What?”

“The tune. On the piano. It’s Chopin’s _Meine Frieden_.”

Daryl replied with a simple shrug, not entirely sure why she decided to bring up such a topic, but figuring it might be some kind of distraction from her coming to realisation that she was dining with a drug dealer.

“It’s kind of romantic don’t you think?” She said.

Daryl choked on his champagne at the mention of the word _romantic_. It was not a topic he thought would be brought up at that particular moment.

“Is that what this is meant to be? Romantic.” He said when he had finally swallowed down his mouthful.

Beth laughed and shook her head gently from side to side. “No. It’s just a romantic piece. It’s nice.”

Daryl nodded his head as he pressed his thumbs together and chewed his lip thoughtfully.

“Cause this.” He waved his finger between the two of them. “It’s just business, right?”

Beth nodded. “Just business.”

Just business.

The words echoed through his head. He was stupid to think it could ever be anything else. Her sweet and caring nature was just business. Her gentle caresses were just business. Her mouth on his cock was just business.

He pouted sullenly and replied to her initial question. “I dunno. You know more about this shit than me.”

He drained his glass of champagne.

“About romance or about music?” Beth queried.

“Both.” Daryl said putting his glass down a little too hard on the table.

Beth dropped her eyes to the glass and studied it intensely for a long moment. “I don’t know about that.” She finally said.

“Oh yeah, that song you were singin’ earlier. That a romantic song?”

Beth shook her head, “No. not really.”

“It was about a guy though right?”

“Yes.”

“About heartbreak?”

“Yes. Very much so.”

“Well heartbreak and romance go hand in hand don’t they?”

Beth shook her head, slower and more deliberate now, “No. Not always.”

Daryl considered probing her for more information, before being interrupted by the two waiters who had attended their table previously. One carried a platter which held two steaming bowls of soup, and the other held the second bottle of champagne.

The waiter with the platter placed it on the table and put the bowls in front of each of them, smiled and then retreated. The second waiter emptied the last of the champagne into their glasses and then removed the empty bottle, loosened the stopper on the new one and then they were left alone once more.

Daryl picked up the nearest spoon ─not the teaspoon─ and poked at the soup with the tip, stirring it slowly around as he tried to determine what it consisted of.

“Try it.” Beth urged, licking the remnants of her own soup from her lips.

Daryl scooped up the soup as carefully as he could, but lost most of it over the sides of the spoon, and then attempted to spoon it into his mouth, but found most of it dripped out onto his chin.

He picked up his napkin and wiped at his whiskers as he watched Beth’s face turn pink. Her mouth was in a firm line lips going white as if she were ready to burst.

“What is it now?” Daryl asked, throwing his napkin forcefully on top of his soup bowl.

“It’s just.” Beth cleared her throat and attempted to regain her composure “That’s a dessert spoon. This one here is for soup.” She lifted up her spoon with a round and deep bowl on the end.

“Are you fuckin’ kiddin’ me?” Daryl growled, his fists clenching, face growing hot, breathing becoming sharp.

“Are you okay?” Beth asked for the second time that night.

“I’m fine.” Daryl grunted, before chugging back another glass of champagne. He had drunk most of the first bottle, while Beth was still on her first glass. He didn’t like it; It had far too many bubbles, but his aim was to get shit-faced drunk and hopefully forget how much of a fuck up he was.

“How do you like it?” Beth asked cautiously, clearly trying to distract him from his incompetence.

“It’s fine.” Daryl grunted. It wasn’t fine though. It was thin and lacked meat, and had some other unusual tangy taste he couldn’t quite figure out.

“And the restaurant?”

“It’s fine.” He grunted again. Even though it wasn’t. it was filled with far too many well-dressed people who kept looking at him like he didn’t belong, and the music of piano pieces that he couldn’t pronounce the name of.

“And the suite?”

“It’s all fine Beth.” He snapped. “It’s all fuckin’ fine. Your first class flight was fine. Your personal chauffer was fine. Your executive suite is fine. Your pretty boy clothes are fine. That insanely hot dress is fine. All. Fucking. Fine.”

“Daryl.” Beth began in a voice of caution. “No need to act like a…”

“Like a what? Like a backwoods redneck with an IQ of 60? Like a no good, dumbass, waste of space nothin’? Like a…”

“Like a kid!” Beth declared abruptly, slamming an open palm against the table. “Why can’t you just enjoy yourself? Enjoy everythin’ I’m tryin’ to do for you.”

“I ain’t Julia Roberts.” Daryl snarled as he jumped to his feet, knocking over the large wooden chair and causing it to crash loudly to the floor behind him. “You can’t take me off the street, throw money at me, dress me all pretty like, and think it’ll make me a better person.”

“I wasn’t tryin’ to, Daryl. I just wanted to treat you…”

“I’m goin’ back to our fancy-ass _suite_ , to lie on my fancy-ass bed, and drink this fancy-ass bottle of champagne.” He grabbed the bottle from the ice bucket, then pulled the stopper with his teeth, spat it across the room so it landed before a shocked looking middle aged man, and began sculling the bottle’s contents back messily.

He wiped the back of his hand across his mouth to clear away the champagne that clung to the hair on his chin and then turned to the restaurant wait staff and patrons who were all watching his performance with keen interest.

“And we ain’t havin’ an affair!” He called to everyone as he turned and briskly stomped towards the exit. “This is just _business_.” He added in a hiss before he made his departure.

* * *

 

Daryl tried to extract the last dregs of champagne by sticking his tongue into the neck of the bottle, but he was unsuccessful. He had drained it completely.

He had also smoked his last cigarette, which he had avoided being detected by the smoke detectors overhead by blowing it into his brand new fancy-ass jacket, and skilfully waving away the escaping plumes.

He had probably been sitting outside the suite for around thirty minutes before Beth strolled down the hall from the elevators, her jacket draped loosely over her shoulders, carrying a paper bag under her arm, and a less than impressed expression on her face.

Even the copious amounts of liquor he had consumed couldn’t block out the horrible sinking, twisting, churning feeling that look caused in his guts. Her eyes were always bright and happy like the mid-spring sun, but now they were dark and clouded over. He had made a complete ass of himself and hurt her in the process. Hurting someone like Beth was the worst thing he could ever imagine doing.

She only glanced at Daryl before swiping her card across the reader and opening the door to the suite.

Daryl wouldn’t blame her if she slammed it in his face, but she propped it open with her high heeled shoe and waited for him to enter.

Daryl staggered to his feet; under the influence of whiskey, champagne, exhaustion, starvation and shame, and then slunk past her with his eyes fixed to his shiny new boots. The ones she had brought for him; a perfect fit.

“I brought you your steak.” Beth said as she forced the warm paper bag into his arms, and stepped militantly past him.

She pulled off her heels and tossed them into the living area, and then began winding her hair up into a neat roll up the centre of her head, strutting purposefully as she crossed the room; Clearly annoyed with him.

“Sorry.” Daryl blurted and then drew in a quick breath, surprised the word had escaped his lips. He never apologised for anything. Not since he was a kid being man handled by his father.

“Huh?” Beth said turning to him, looking equally surprised; her eyes even wider than usual.

“I’m sorry for blowin’ up at you like that. Had too much to drink. Real tired. Felt out of place. Don’t have a good enough reason for makin’ _you_ feel bad though.”

Beth looked at him for a moment; the thoughts that flitted through her mind glinted in her eyes.

“I get it.” She eventually said with a nonchalant shrug. She moved across the room towards the piano. “Some people can be real jerks when they drink.” She added with a smirk.

“Yeah. I’m a dick” Daryl agreed as he slid down on to the sofa. “When I’m drunk.” He added with his own smirk. He was somewhat relived she didn’t blow up at him in return as he was sure most woman would have done.

“But ownin’ your actions; that’s a big step. And it kinda makes you less of a… _jerk_.” Beth flashed him a grin that made his stomach flutter and cheeks grow hot, removing any sense of anguish he had felt earlier. She dropped herself onto the bench in front of the piano, adjusting her dress so she didn’t reveal any more of her enticing flesh.

Daryl shrugged his heavy shoulders. “Maybe.”

“I’m sorry if that made you uncomfortable.” She said distractedly as she ran the fingers of one hand over the piano keys. “I was just tryin’ to show you somethin’ new.”

“I know what you’re tryin’ to do.” Daryl said as he lay his head down amongst the soft sofa cushions, and kicked his boots over the arm rest. “And I ‘preciate it. No one’s ever done this kind o’ shit for me before. And I know you gotta be usin’ your own money.”

He turned his head to the side so he could see Beth. She had stopped running her fingers across the keys, but had turned her slender back to him; her pretty face hidden from view.

“It’s just strange.” Daryl continued, slowly tugging at the hair on his chin as he vocalised his feelings; Something he never did. Not even when he was as drunk as what he was now. “I ain’t used to things bein’ nice. I’m used to things bein’ messed up. I ain’t used to kindness. I’m used to people fuckin’ me over. And I kinda feel more comfortable in your green room, getting’ the shit slapped outta me, than I do out ‘ere bein’ treated like a respectable human bein’.”

“It’s hard to adapt to new things.” Beth said, glancing quickly over her shoulder. “And sometimes it’s hard to let go of what you were. Or to become something new.”

“Yeah.” Daryl agreed. He smiled towards Beth and waited for her to make eye contact. “But I think you got me headin’ in the right direction.”

The warmth from Beth’s respondent smile spread through every inch of his buzzing body, melting him into a soppy, wet pool of emotions. He chewed on the side of his finger nervously. He was in way too deep with this girl. Doing things he never would have dreamed of doing. Feeling things he never would have dreamed of feeling. Apologising for things he never would have apologised for before, and having a genuine fear of hurting someone. He knew part of that was what Beth was teaching him, and it was in her job description, but he didn’t know if he was supposed be feeling such a strong emotional connection to her.

But he liked it. He liked all of it.

He knew that if anyone could help him change and become a better person, it would have to be someone who was worth being a better person for.

He was nervously looking forward to whatever she had planned for him during the rest of their vacation, no matter how uncomfortable and out of place it made him feel. And he was nervously dreaded what would happen when they went back to Georgia, and the vacation ─ and eventually the therapy ─ was all over.

“Hey Beth.” He mumbled, through his fiddling fingers.

“Yeah?” She replied

He wanted to talk to her about his concerns; about what he was feeling towards her. How he wasn’t sure he could look at what they did together as just business. Curious if she had the same concerns he did. But he came to the conclusion he was just too drunk to think clearly, and decided to ask something less confronting.

“Why don’t you play some more?” He said, nodding towards the piano. “Sing a lil’ bit.”

Beth smiled warmly, turned back to the piano and sung to him in her sweet soulful voice. Not the song she was singing earlier, but still something slow and dreamy. He was enveloped in the trance of her voice and the warmth of her presence and in only a few seconds he had fallen into a deep and peaceful sleep.

__  
And I hear the slow in your speech  
Yeah, you're half asleep  
Say goodnight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've never been to Canada but my brother has, and I picked his brain for information, so blame all inaccuracies on him :)

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Sillymommy2010 for being my guinea pig :)


End file.
